


Blessed (Cursed) by the Gods

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Ancient Greece AU, Bruce Angst, Bruce Feels, Bruce Needs a Hug, Bruce is an Oracle, But NOT Dick Grayson!, But understandably Bruce is still kind of 'eh' on people in this fic, Clark is a demi-god, Clark is a ray of sunshine, Diana is still Diana because you know... she's already Greek, Diana is wise and all-knowing and helpful, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Friends to Lovers, Eventual Relationships, Hades is a dick, I also sneak in several actual mythical Greek figures, I've hidden other characters as easter eggs in the story. See if you can guess 'em in the comments, If you squint it's vaguely based-on Hercules the Disney Movie, M/M, Rating may change depending on what happens with the plot, Slow Burn, Slow Updates, Work In Progress, see if you can spot them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-10-20 22:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17630543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: AU where Bruce and Clark live in ancient Greece. Bruce isblessedcursed by the gods with the ability to see the future… the only problem? He sees everyone’s death (except his own), along with the future, and is overwhelmed by it. So he runs and hides away from society. Alfred is his man-on-the-street and tells him what’s going on (i.e. if anyone’s trying to find him). Clark is a demi-god (aspiring) hero, son of Zeus, who seeks Bruce out one day because he's heard rumors of an Oracle of Death and wants to know what’ll happen to him. Bruce wants nothing to do with him… at least at first. BUT Clark is immortal, meaning Bruce cannot see his death, which complicates matters. Things go on from there.





	1. I Sleep on the Right Side, I Live in the Left, That's Why Everything's Gotta Be Love or Death

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters, DC Comics does. Also, this has a few plot elements *cough* Hades wanting to kill the son of Zeus, *cough* from Disney's _Hercules_ movie. This was just a plot bunny/story idea that was scratching in my head to get onto the page.
> 
> Disclaimer: I tried to be historically accurate with most of this fic, which means I did some research. Now, I am not a trained historian, and merely have learned most of what I know about ancient Greece from studying it in school/lit classes. Not everything is going to be (or should be) perfect, fyi if that bothers you. 
> 
> Also, death is a major theme of this, since ya know, Bruce is an Oracle of Death. If that bothers you, here's your warning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has a problem. He sees dead people. Okay, not _dead_ people, but people's deaths. He can also see the future, as it relates to people's deaths. But he's got other problems than that. Specifically, he's got a problem named Hades. The God of Death. Yeah. It's as bad as it sounds...
> 
> Chapter title from the song, _Death_ by White Lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's gonna take a superman to sweep me off my feet"  
> — _Holding Out for a Hero_ , Bonnie Tyler

Squished. Squished. Flood. Grasshopper. Lizard. Squished. Squished. Squished— by _him_. Bruce sighed, trying to ignore the ants’ crawling intrusion into his mind. He turned back to what he had been doing, reading a papyrus copy of Socrates’ latest speech. Alfred had procured it for him. _Old age. Twelve years, six days, and forty-six minutes_. Bruce growled, accidentally crinkling the scroll. He smoothed it out, then set it down. He hadn’t seen Alfred in months prior to his visit last week, and he still missed the man, with a sharp pang of one who knows that all things are fleeting. 

He felt like a boat, tied to a dock— he wanted to avoid Alfred, but needed him, and wanted his companionship. At the same time, as much as he was attached, he wanted to run. Every time he saw the other man, Bruce knew how much longer they’d have together. And it broke his fucking heart. But gods, _twelve years?_ That was only two away from a decade, which was only five years away from five years, which… Bruce took a deep breath. Remembered Alfred’s words, “It is not the length of time you spend with someone, Bruce, but the quality of it.” He took one more deep breath. 

A bird landed on the ground outside his cave. _Three months, snake_ , Bruce couldn’t help thinking. He shuddered. And cursed the gods. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

“Oh, Zeus! Thank you so much, young man. However can I repay you?” asked the old woman— Leslie, she’d said her name was. Clark put down the heavy cart, laden with amphora heading to the market. The poor old lady had accidentally driven it into a ditch and Clark had come along and picked it up out of the ditch for her. Unlike most folks, she didn’t seem to care about his… abilities. 

The old woman was wrapped in two shawls over her toga to keep warm, even though it was early spring— and Demeter, it seemed, would be good to them this year, the way the weather had been. Clark said a small prayer of thanks and turned his attention back to the wizened woman. 

“No need to thank me, ma’am. However, if you could offer me information, I would be quite happy,” he said. The woman bowed her head. 

“Yes, I’d love to. What is it you wish to know?” 

Clark swallowed. _This was usually where things went to Hades. He’d heard about the Oracle, the one who foretold a person’s future, and their death, but either no one knew where he was, or they were too frightened to tell him_. “Ma’am,” he asked politely, “do you know the location of the Oracle of Future and Death? I am seeking him out to find my fortune.” 

The woman raised one brow and peered at him curiously through her milky, semi-blind eyes. “Yes, dear. But why do you want to visit _him_?” she asked skeptically. 

Clark blinked and flushed. “I— I’d like to be a hero, ma’am,” he replied self-consciously. 

The old woman smiled her mostly-toothless smile. “Well, son, in my scrolls, you already are! But, since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell you: there is a man in Gotham who acts as his scribe. If he deems you worthy, he will tell you where to find his master. Best of luck!” With that, the woman mounted the seat of her cart and snapped the whip, so her oxen bellowed and began moving. 

Clark stood a moment, watching. Then he shook his head and sighed. He needed to get to Gotham. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Aphrodite smiled as she appeared in the seat next to her devotee. “Well done,” she said to the mortal one called Leslie. The old woman nodded, eyes still on the road. 

“I have done all I can do, Mistress. He is on his way. It is up to the Pennyworth man, now,” she said, tone hushed and respectful. 

The Goddess of Love smiled, pleased. “You have served me faithfully, Leslie. I shall reward you,” she said. Leslie gasped, blinking her eyes. 

“My eyes! Th— thank you, goddess!” she cried happily. Aphrodite smiled a small, secret smile and vanished. The smell of roses lingered. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Bruce grumbled in his sleep, and thrashed about on his reed mat. With a start, he woke, wiping sweat from his brow. He sat up with a groan and stood, stretching. Though he had chosen this life, and actually liked the solitude of the cave’s location, he did miss beds. The fire’s light had long gone dim, so he felt around for some kindling and wood to reignite the blaze. Once that task was accomplished, he said, lowly— not submissive— but wary, respectful, “You can come out now, Lord Hades.” 

“Ah ha hah hee hoo,” cackled the God of Death, the man who played with lives, the Jester of Humanity. Today his verdant green hair was brushed back. But it still looked quite unnatural. “I never have been able to sneak up on you, have I?” he asked, amusedly. 

Bruce grit his teeth. _No, he hadn’t, because Bruce could fucking see the future. It was a curse of Hades’ own making, and he knew it. And Bruce hated the God of Death. Especially when he ‘visited’ like this, because Bruce could see everything around him— all the souls he’d claimed, all those damned_— He forced himself to pay attention, jerking his gaze away from the flames. Bruce had paid the price for irreverence before. He ran his fingers over the old scar on his palm— Hades had marked him for it. 

The god, in unusual fashion, was leaned against the cave’s wall, black robes hanging stilly—unnaturally so— from him. He was waiting for Bruce to process. He smirked, white cheeks moving disturbingly to accommodate his red lips. “Finally ready to talk, are we?” he asked lightly. Bruce tensed. Hades was unpredictable. So he kept quiet, bowed his head in acknowledgement. 

Hades’ eyes flashed, pleased at Bruce’s submissiveness. Bruce grit his teeth. “I need you to do something for me,” he said coolly. Bruce looked up. Hades’ expression was calculatingly blank. “A… _child_ of my brother’s is going to come here. I want you to let him. Tell him his fortune. Tell _me_ his death.” Despite himself, Bruce froze. He thought that the God of Death was crazy— or maybe just delusional. Privately, he didn't believe that there _could_ be a demi-god walking among mortals in this day and age. There hadn't been one since Bruce was a small baby. 

His parents, when they had been alive, told him stories about that time of heroes. The chaos. The destruction. The thousands injured in battles. Or how after Hera had sent _him_ into a rage, he'd killed everything he could reach. That how, after the massacre— of his own family— Zeus had sent his bastard son around the world to do PR by “helping.” And after that, a demi-god hadn’t been seen since. Bruce had the suspicion, the type that usually came with a prophecy, that something had happened to them. Not that he particularly cared for that class of being. Part of the reason Bruce's parents had been killed was that people feared him to be some freak son of Hades, a bad omen, dangerous. 

He struggled with the… shock, that even the God of Death could be crazy enough to go chasing a “demi-god.” Let alone one that was supposedly a child of one of his brothers; regardless of which brother, both Gods were powerful. But whoever Hades was looking for, Bruce certainly hoped they wouldn’t come _here_. He hadn’t let anyone besides Alfred visit him in nearly a year, not since the other Oracle. Barbara had been her name, and she had been gifted by Hephaestus. Privately, Bruce envied her that gift. In her temperament, she was a bit like her patron god as well— Barbara had demanded a visit, just to meet someone like her. 

If someone, this “demi-god,” really was going to show up, he’d have to move, again. And he liked this spot. Not to mention, _he didn’t want to see anyone else’s death_. But Hades was observing him sharply, and Bruce had no other choice— he was a GOD— and so he said, tone not at all what it should be, “Yes.” 

“'Yes?'” Hades asked, eyes flickering. Bruce imagined he could hear screaming. 

“Yes, Lord Hades,” he grit out. The god smirked again. 

“Good,” he said, before vanishing in a puff of smoke. Bruce coughed at the brimstone scent he’d left behind. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

The next few months were tense. Bruce felt on-edge the whole time. Tired. Irritated. He walked to the temple of Athena in the dead of the night, as he often did when he was troubled, and prayed for wisdom. At the very least, even if she wasn’t listening, it wouldn’t hurt Bruce’s odds later. But waiting for this mystery person to show was wearing on him… 

Hades is wrong. The next two pilgrims to appear at his door (well, cave-opening) are mortal. 

One is a king, who tries to bribe Bruce with gold. Bruce refuses, annoyed. Alfred didn't send him here, Alfred only sent him the worthy ones; he must have bought the information. Which was also troubling. 

The man demands to know his future. He is arrogant, a fleshy knock-off of Hades, and bad to his people, Bruce can tell. So he says, just to be safe, that the king will die after living a long life, surrounded by loving friends and loyal subjects. It isn't often that Bruce's prophecies are wrong, or that people can change them, but one never knows when a god might be beseeched to interfere. The king leaves, pleased. 

He will die in a month. It will be by poison. 

The next visitor is an old man, a farmer all his life. He says he has little gold to offer. But he can cook Bruce a meal. Bruce accepts, and shares his fire. The old farmer says that he's here to learn his future so he can plan for his family— a wife, two adult children, one grandchild on the way. He isn't afraid of the answer. Bruce can tell Alfred sent him. 

“Cancer. One year,” Bruce tells him sorrowfully. 

The man's shoulders slump, but he says, gratefully, “Thank you.” 

Bruce watches him walk away, soul heavy. 

No one who visits Bruce is a demi-god. Because they no longer exist. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Clark reaches Gotham a month later. He spends the next few weeks getting acquainted with the city: where its information hubs are, what areas he should avoid, the local customs… how they (potentially) feel about demi-gods. Once he’s comfortable, Clark gets a job equipping merchant boats. Just because he’s the son of Zeus doesn’t mean he has it _all_. Strength won’t buy food or lodgings. 

After work, he travels between the local taverns, the agora, the temples. He listens, asks questions, makes nice with local business owners. He finds more long-term lodging with a nice woman with ice-blue eyes, and long dark hair. She has an unusual accent, dresses strangely, and is almost as tall as Clark is. She says she is a stranger here. Clark says he is too, and rents a room. He’s pretty sure she gives him a discount. And after that problem is solved, he waits. Leslie said the man he was seeking was called ‘Pennyworth,’ but she offered no description. Yet Clark has a suspicion that the fates will lead him to where he wants to go. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

It is almost summer, and Bruce has a headache. Summer is his least favorite time of year— his senses are overwhelmed by the life, emotions triggered by the impending doom for much of it. Also, despite the cave’s naturally-cool environment, it swelters in the heat, and the languid afternoon shadows do not keep him from becoming sticky. He could go to the river, but Alfred had warned him that a pack of nymphs had moved in. 

If there’s one thing Bruce hates more than foretelling death, it is dealing at-length with immortals. They confuse him. He feels blind or drunk, with his ‘sight’ cut off or dimmed as it always is around them. If there is no death, there is no future, only constant, perfect stagnation. Even the thought of it makes him shudder. Also, he doesn’t particularly feel like risking a kidnapping or being transfigured into a tree, swan, or fish. 

Bruce glances into his deep amphora, frowning. Wipes his brow. Sighs. _Guess to town it is_ , he frets irritatedly. But he _needs_ water, so he has little choice. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Bruce puffs as he loads several smaller amphora onto his pathetic, old cart. He has no mules, no oxen, so he travels light. Pulls his cart himself. Bruce also straps a knife to his belt, and ties a bag of sand, and a sack of coins, to the inside of his tunic. Money, thanks to his parents, and Alfred, is something he does not have to worry about. Though, it doesn’t do him much good since he lives in isolation, with no place to spend it, and no desire to. But if he sees a street urchin, or a particularly talented poet, he’ll give them a few coins. 

He swallows. Frowns. Bruce is nervous. The last time he went into Gotham… he can’t remember. It had been a while. He yawns, double-checking everything. After he’s satisfied, Bruce eats a piece of bread, dipping it into the last of his olive oil. He’ll have to buy more of that too. Then, despite the fact that it is only mid-afternoon, Bruce goes to bed. It is a decent journey to civilization, and he wants to get an early start.

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

The next morning, Bruce rises before Helios. Yawning, he boils the last of his water and eats a bowl of steamed oats mixed with wild berries. He takes a short walk to warm his sleep-scrambled muscles, and moves to the cart. Squatting, he bears the load with a grunt and is on his way. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

It is market day in the city and Clark has a feeling that today will be… special. So he rises just as Helios is making his morning ride, washes his face, dresses, and is out the door. He spares a moment to say hello to his hostess and is off. He hums softly along the way. 

Clark heads toward the public square, going where his common sense tells him the action will be. As he arrives, most folks are just setting up. But there is already a lyricist playing, a small clay jug at his feet. Clark tosses a few coins into it and sits at the base of the fountain, listening. Today is the day, he can feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTh9IuSTOY0) for _Death_. Check it out (this is one of my favorite songs!!! :)


	2. Where's the Street-wise Hercules to Fight the Rising Odds?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce reaches Gotham, with dramatic results. But never fear, Clark is here!
> 
> Chapter title shamelessly stolen from the song, _Holding Out for a Hero_ by Bonnie Tyler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "She looked right through me  
> And I turned to stone  
> Medusa, Medusa, I've been here alone  
> And I crumbled to pieces my body, my weakness, is on the floor  
> And the wind will blow and blow, and I won't be here no more  
> My wishing well has run dry  
> Stars are dying in the sky  
> So I'm shedding my blood and tears  
> I'll show no fear just to survive"  
> — _Medusa_ , Kailee Morgue

It is mid-day by the time Bruce reaches the outskirts of the city. He heads to the side of the road and hides the cart behind a thick cluster of bushes. If he remembers right, and Bruce usually has an excellent memory, there should be a small stream somewhere nearby that he can freshen up in. After double-checking his cart’s hiding spot, he wanders off to find it. 

Only a few minutes later, Bruce hears the telling burble. He follows his ears and the bubbling sound grows, deepens, and multiplies. The stream has changed since the last time Bruce was here. That suits his purposes. He strips and brings his sand bag with him into the luke-warm water. 

Part of the now-river is deep enough to cover his waist. Bruce crouches, submerging himself. He sits there for a few minutes, reveling in the blissful break from the heat. Then he scrubs up and rinses off. He ducks his head under the water to clean his hair— and emerges with silver ripples flowing down his face. He dresses and returns to the cart and continues on his way. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Clark is still sitting by the fountain a few hours later, watching the buyers bartering, the businesspeople selling, and the local folk browsing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a regal-looking man, with red hair, walk by. The man pauses, squinting at a stand that contains amphora of wine. Clark thinks he may be extremely near-sighted, which would explain the people accompanying him. But that doesn’t explain the way he walks— like someone important. The three people he’s accompanied by are _underlings_ , Clark guesses. “Gordon,” he hears people whisper. 

And that sparks a recollection. He’d heard the name ‘Gordon’ before. Gordon was part of the oligarchy that ran Gotham. Although there were rumors that he was a reformist, that he really wanted democracy. Like in his birth-city of Athens. Personally, Clark isn't sure. He’ll reserve judgement until he’s seen the man in-action. For the moment, he turns back to crowd-gazing to pass the time. Though, he isn’t really sure what he's _waiting_ for. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Around 2 p.m., Bruce finally reaches the city. Gotham. He bristles immediately at the gray marble statue of the god with a winged forehead. Hypnos, the patron God of Gotham. Bruce had forgotten how much he dislikes Gotham— it is creepy, in a (ironically) sleepy way. The city disarmed you and then devoured you. Like it had done to his parents. There was something sinister in the city whose patron God could attack his victims at any moment and cast them into the abyss. 

As he draws nearer to the center of town, it takes more and more effort not to let the visions overwhelm him. _15 years, plague. 3 days, child birth. 2 years, six months, and fifteen days— drowning. 20 years, falling from the sky because he got too close to the sun._ Bruce frowns at that last one and tries to clear his mind. Two young children run by. _She would die first. He would go mad and descend into the Underworld and try to save her, unsuccessfully._ Bruce blinks and forces his concentration back to reality, and just in time too— he’d been about to steer the cart into a wall. 

He focuses his gaze straight ahead and is successful for a few more minutes at keeping the visions out, though they still run like the Styx in the back of his mind: _fifteen years, childbirth, four months, poison, five years, infection, one year and six months, childbirth, two days, choking, eight years, drowning, seven weeks, childbirth, nine years, infection, two years, old age, 14 hours, old age, 3 months, sudden infant death, ten years, snakebite, one month, stabbing, 25 years, old age._ He curses under his breath and stares straight ahead at the street. 

He curses again when he notices people starting to stare. Either he looks out of place (and Bruce suspects he does, given his paleness, his strange manor of transport) or people know who he is. _One hour, falling off his horse._ Bruce suspects, unfortunately, that it is a mix of both. _Twelve years, broken leg._ He frowns, cross that he’ll have to move again and uproot Alfred all-over. _One week, the flu._ The man liked it here, for some reason. Must be that this was where he had a major fan-base for his poetry. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

By the time Bruce reaches the heart of Gotham, he’s breathing shallowly, and feeling a bit dizzy. He’d overestimated his control. Despite the discomfort— and it is extreme— he keeps going. Because, godsdamnit, he _needs_ water and supplies. And Gotham isn’t even that big of a city and he needs to be able to take care of himself when Alfred is gone. So Bruce wades through the: _20 years, five days, 2 hours, six months, 40 years, 8 hours, 10 years_ , and heads to the fountain. He doesn’t notice, at this point, the more-pointed stares he’s getting. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Clark first notices the commotion coming from the North. It isn’t much, but for an observant, aspiring-hero like him, it’s often the little things that make a difference between a disaster averted and a disastrous, well, _disaster_. So he sits up straighter and pays attention. As far as he can tell, the source of the trouble resides inside the small cluster of nervous onlookers. It isn’t, as far as Clark can tell, any sort of beast, or creature. _Perhaps a deity_ , he ponders. But no, there would, rightfully, be more reverence if a _god_ or _goddess_ chose to visit here. So it must be something else. 

And then he sees him. _Him_. And he knows. 

This is what— who— he was waiting for. 

The man is pale, unnaturally so, like he spends all his time indoors, or hidden away in a _cave_. His skin is clean, and free of any signs of manual labor, yet he is clearly strong. He has a small cart, and, as far as Clark can tell from this distance, few belongings. Like a hermit. Atop it all, he is… handsome. _Beautiful_ , really. His jaw is chiseled, sharp. Hair blacker than the night, dark as the midnight scowl of Uranus. He is dressed plainly, but elegantly; he knows what looks good on him. But the thing that gives him away? His _aura_. Clark can feel a chilly, unnatural, prickling sense of existential dread around him. Not that he blames the guy. Clark knows what it’s like to be stuck with a power that is sometimes a blessing, others a curse. But still. _He can tell_. This is the man he’s looking for. 

And as he sits and _stares_ and thinks, the man is getting closer. The bubble of curious, and some fearful, observers is growing. But the man— _and I don’t even know his name_ , Clark despairs— does not notice. In fact, as he draws nearer, Clark can make out more of his features (eyes so blue, cheekbones high, aristocratic) he looks… _ill_. Clark is prenaturally concerned. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Bruce feels sick. Like Atlas had dropped his impossible burden right on Bruce’s skull. His sight goes in and out as little visions jerk him around, like a young child with their doll. This in turn disorients him, makes the (growing) panic worse, and makes his nausea bloom more rapidly. But he has to act normal. Has to get water. Food. Has to get what he needs and then _leave_ so he doesn’t break Alfred’s fucking heart by dying here. _Although, maybe,_ he thinks morbidly, _he’s supposed to die here. He’ll never know, until he greets Hades himself in the afterlife, how or when he’s going to die. And isn’t that a fucking riot? He’s the man who cannot escape death. Except for his own_. But with a groan, which is more of a whine, Bruce focuses ahead. He can see the fountain, hear it. 

By it is a young mother filling her empty water jugs. She is with her two children. _11 months, fever. 15 years, childbirth. 21 days, infection_. Bruce doesn’t realize he’s muttering aloud. But the small crowd does. Some, who suspected beforehand, shiver. Others look puzzled. A few more, like flies to a carcass, are drawn in by the spectacle. Some are actually concerned. Most are not. Around this space, the market booms on. 

The young mother looks up sharply, eyes wide with pure, animalistic fear, and Bruce has enough presence left to shut his mouth. Shakily, he turns to the lever and pumps. He stands there, blinking, until the shock of cold water on his feet prompts him to pick up his amphora and fill them. He doesn’t notice that the woman has grabbed her children and hurried away. Bruce feels sick— genuinely faint. “Five months, malnutrition, 35 years, old age, 7 weeks, suicide, 30 minutes, robbery,” he murmurs dazedly under his breath. Death, death, death. He is surrounded by death. The faces around him morph into skeletons, the land under his feet becomes barren, gray ash. Bruce stumbles. The amphora drops, bursting into big chunks of pottery and splashing him, the ground. His feet move forward automatically, and he trips over a piece of shattered pottery. 

He blacks out for a moment and then he is lying on the cobblestones, wet, shivering, shaking. His stomach churns and Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his mouth tight. His hands go to his head and fingers go to block his ears automatically, not that the motion will help. It’s not his ears that are the problem. _1 hour, 2 minutes, 12 years, 4 days, 56 hours, 40 months, 22 years, poison, duel, murder, childbirth, childbirth, flu, plague, **starvation,war,war,war,war,war,oldage.**_

Bruce lies there panting, eyes squeezed shut. Now there is a crowd watching. One or two people look pitying, a few more start forward. But no one actually manages to cross the bubble of space around Bruce. The silence judgement of the other spectators, and, perhaps, a little fear of the man in question, hold all observers in check. Until Clark. 

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“Hey! Excuse me! Let me through!” Clark calls, pushing people, gently, _always_ gently, out of the way. He reaches the edge of the crowd and they tense as he touches the edge of the bubble of space and bursts it. Clark kneels by the side of the Oracle of Future and Death and lays a hand on his shoulder. 

The man opens one eye, squinting like he had a migraine. When he sees Clark, he moans, high, unearthly, “Get away! Get away!” But just as Clark pulls back his hand— like the Oracle is fire and Clark’s just been burned— the other man suddenly blinks open his eyes, staring. _And his eyes aren’t just blue_ , Clark thinks, _they’re the color of the ocean on a perfect day. An orchid after a rainstorm in May. The sky on a crisp winter morning_. Those eyes are sharp enough to have cut Achille’s heel. The Oracle’s hand jerks out, almost as if he’s been struck sightless, and latches onto Clark’s ankle. His hold is warm. Clark’s stomach is doing flips. 

“You,” the man gasps. Then his eyes roll, and he slumps limp to the ground. 

Finally, one brave soul steps forward, asking, “Do you need help?” It is Gordon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so-WPp5HeQl) for _Medusa_ (again, an AMAZING song).
> 
> Here's [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bWcASV2sey0) for _Holding Out for a Hero_.


	3. If God's Taking Bets I Pray He Wants to Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce recovers from his ordeal and meets his *handsome* rescuer.
> 
> Chapter title from the song, _Not as We_ by Alanis Morissette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Reborn and shivering  
> Spat out on new terrain  
> Unsure unconvincing  
> This faint and shaky hour"  
> — _Not as We_ , Alanis Morissette.
> 
>  

Bruce stirs fitfully, eyes fluttering behind his lids. His brow furrows as he reopens his eyes. Upon sitting up, he finds he is in an unfamiliar location. It appears to be some sort of lodging place, perhaps an inn. The room is small, but well-lit by natural light. It is just on the right side of decorating to be cozy and not claustrophobic. The bed is worlds more comfortable than his regular hard mat. It feels like Elysium compared to his mat. His eyes flick around the room again. It is utterly empty of personal items except for a sack in the corner and a few piles of belongings on the table. It is also quiet— both physically, and, surprisingly, mentally too. Bruce frowns.

 _The last thing he remembered was being overwhelmed. Drowning in a sea of death. Dizziness. Nausea. The world pressing in. Tides and tides of the dead, grasping. Being weak, falling to the ground. Water, spilled. Amphora broken. Pain. Panic. And then, abrupt relief. Like someone had stuffed his ‘ears’ with cotton, and put a dark blindfold over his ‘eyes.’ Out of shock, Bruce looks to see who, possibly, could have offered such respite. The watching crowd is too quiet for it to be a god. But, Bruce thinks, still reeling, it is not a god, or even an immortal, but a man. A man, who, in a sheer panic, Bruce tells to “Get away from me!” But as soon as he goes to leave, so does the blissful silence so Bruce snatches at him. The man returns, looking sympathetic, and Bruce, Bruce can do nothing but fall into that nothingness, that oblivion. His mind is too exhausted to do anything else. And that is the last thing he remembers._

Bruce frowns, more worried now, about his situation. What would Alfred do if he’d gotten himself captured? He pushes back the blanket somewhat, going to leave, when a voice interrupts. “Hey, you’re awake!” 

Bruce flinches, automatically, at the voice of another person. He waits for the bombardment, like earlier, but it doesn’t come. Bruce blinks open his eyes curiously and observes this man, this savior. And he connects the dots— _he_ must have been the same man who’d helped him earlier. What were the chances of meeting _two_ ‘blind-spots’ in such proximity, in one day? This time around, Bruce gets a better look at him. _The man is muscular, like perfection. Perfect ratios all around, as far as Bruce can see. His hair is curly like mountains. His eyes, his eyes are striking— the color of the ocean after one of Poseidon’s storms. The sky just before rain_. Bruce blinks, still puzzled, wary, _relieved_ , at the odd numbness, the blankness, in his sight. 

Bruce realizes that he’s been lying there, staring in silence, for minutes. But the other man doesn’t seem to mind, in fact, had stayed fixed in place by the door, with two cups of water and a plate of food. As if he was waiting for Bruce to process. As soon as he saw Bruce was more alert, he smiled, eyes lightening. “I hope you’re feeling better. I brought you some food, if you’d like. The building is empty… I had Diana clear it out. Er, well, Gordon did.” 

Bruce blinks again. He feels remarkably better, but still, perhaps a bit dazed. _Why else would this handsome stranger dazzle him so, and leave him tongue-tied like this?_ And the man is still talking, “—hope you don’t mind, but what’s your name?” 

“Bruce,” Bruce says, and blinks at the brilliance of the other man’s smile. 

“Hi, Bruce. I’m Clark. I hope you’re hungry.” Bruce’s stomach makes its opinion heard: yes, he is hungry. It had been almost a day since he’d eaten anything, and with the mental (and physical) stress he’d been under, Bruce was _ravenous._

“Yes, I am,” he said quietly. Clark smiled again— _and could he do anything else_ , Bruce wondered— advancing with his water and his food. 

“Good. I’ll fill you in while you’re eating,” Clark said. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

“—and so Gordon ordered everyone out, except the owner, Diana. She’s the one who cooked all this. She’s very nice… Anyway, Gordon. He’s the one behind this,” Clark finished awkwardly. He looked up from his hands to see that his incapacitated audience was still eating. _As if he hadn’t had enough food in a long time_ , Clark thought, worried. But then he mentally chastised himself over the pang of fond concern he’d felt moments earlier. He didn’t know this man, despite how sympathetic (attracted) he felt toward him. 

Clark realized he was staring when the Oracle— Bruce— looked up at him. Bashfully, Clark averted his gaze. He only looked back when he heard the sound of rustling bed covers. Bruce had swung both his legs out of bed and looked as if he were going to try to stand. “What are you doing?” Clark blurted, alarmed. 

Bruce shot him a glare and Clark shivered as he felt the look pierce him. “I’m getting up,” Bruce said, “Gordon’s going to want to talk to me and I intend to present a strong-front when he does.” 

“But,” Clark objected, trying to ignore another heated round of glaring, “you’re—” 

“—I’m _not_ an invalid. I was just… overwhelmed. And I’m better now, mostly thanks to you…” Bruce said quietly, trailing off. But though he adjusted to face Clark more, he didn’t move to get up. Clark stilled. 

This time, he was the one who felt scrutinized. Bruce was clearly puzzled, gazing at Clark as if he was the Gordian knot. Clark noticed that he almost looked like he would go cross-eyed in a few more minutes. Bruce seemed to shake himself, gaze refocusing. “What are you?” he finally asked, eyes fixing on Clark’s. 

Clark blushed. “I’m the— _a_ son of Zeus.” 

Bruce blinked a moment and laughed. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

_Of fucking course. Gods, it was just his luck. Son of Zeus, it was just like Hades to be an Oedipus and look for the literal son of Zeus. He was right. And now he’d want Bruce to tell him how to kill Clark. The demi-god. Whose future (and death) Bruce couldn’t see. Because he was immortal. But Hades would expect an answer anyway_. And that sobered Bruce right up. Because even if Clark didn’t have a problem, Bruce still did. He frowned. 

“What?” Clark asked. Bruce sighed. 

“I already knew you were… different,” he explained. Clark’s brow furrowed a moment, and then understanding dawned in his eyes. His gaze flickered to Bruce’s for a moment, and then politely away. _He was picturing the same thing Bruce was. That moment of weakness, that grasping on, as if to a life-line, a ball of yarn in the maze_. Bruce resolutely did not look away, did not grow shame-faced. 

“Oh,” Clark said after a moment. There was silence. 

Bruce, without the distraction of speech, once again feels like his eyes are looking into the sun, or far, far into the distance. It’s unsettling. He squints and blinks to force the uncomfortable feeling away. It’s not his eyes that are affected, after all… But it feels unsettling, dizzying, a bit. It’s not that he doesn’t like not being able to see death, but that it’s odd. It is a blank void. There is a difference between him not seeing because he is alone and him not seeing because he is _blocked_ from it. 

He squeezes his eyes tightly shut a moment, to reset, and rubs his fingers along his temples. 

“You okay?” asks Clark quietly. Bruce looks at him again, this time managing to keep control. 

“Yes,” Bruce says frowning. For some reason he has a desire to spill his secrets. “It’s just… I can’t _see_ you— well, I can see you but not _see_ you. It’s… unsettling. But it’s not a physical thing, like looking at the sun too long. It’s just… not there. An absence. You probably don’t understand,” Bruce finishes awkwardly. He looks up. Clark is staring. Bruce feel self-conscious. 

And it must show, because Clark sits up animatedly and says, “No, no! I’m not— well, okay, maybe I am a little confused, but I get it. Feeling different. Go on.” 

Bruce snorts. At least he has humor. That’s new, for an immortal. But when Clark doesn’t start laughing, Bruce cuts himself off abruptly. He frowns a bit, studying Clark’s face. And he comes to a realization. “Huh. I always thought they knew. But you don’t, do you?” He blinks. 

Now Clark frowns. “What’re you talking about?” 

Bruce stares at him. At Clark’s face, which will never age. Never change. Never die. Which is why Bruce is fucked, because Hades wants to kill Clark, and Bruce has to tell him, no, he can’t. Which won’t lead to anything good for Bruce. “You’re immortal, Clark.” 

Clark blinks. Opens his mouth. Gordon chooses that moment to knock. He asks, “May I enter?” 

Clark shoots him a look and goes to answer the door. Bruce sighs. _He should have kept his mouth shut. Tartarus, he should have just never come here in the first place._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is [the music video](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1pOjcAiMZO4) for the (gorgeous) song, _Not as We_.


	4. An Ending Fitting for the Start, You Can't Stand Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finally meets Gordon, who has some questions for him. Diana makes an appearance. 
> 
> Chapter title from the song, _Can't Stand Me Now_ by The Libertines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If I could walk on water  
> If I could tell you what's next  
> I'd make you believe  
> I'd make you forget"  
> — _Come On Get Higher_ , Matt Nathanson

Gordon enters with two slaves who both carry batons. They must be city guards. This observation puts Bruce on edge, and he’s glad, suddenly, that he had the foresight to adjust his position so he wouldn’t appear weak. Gordon is squinting slightly. And Bruce thinks that he must have bad eyesight. Perhaps that is why the slaves are with him— to make sure an important city leader does not get assassinated. Somehow, Bruce doubts it. He turns from observing Bruce to Clark, and says, “I’d like to be alone…” 

“—Kal,” Clark answers, not missing a beat. Outwardly, Bruce keeps his face neutral. But he thinks, _Curious, he wasn’t such a hoplite after all_. Gordon offers a wane smile. 

“Kal,” he says. Clark hesitates, gaze flickering to Bruce. Bruce gives a miniscule nod, preparing himself. Clark turns on his heels and leaves, giving Bruce one last concerned look. Somehow it doesn’t bother Bruce. Once he’s left the room, the two slaves take up their post by the door. Bruce’s level of concern ticks up slightly. 

But he’s kind of too-busy to feel much. His earlier headache returns, slightly. Bruce controls his reactions better, this time. He still flinches. Still locks up. He forces himself to relax, and to meet Gordon’s eyes. The man, Bruce realizes is watching him. Like a snake watches a mouse. It’s… unsettling. Bruce doesn’t know if it’s worse that he seems to be letting Bruce adjust or that he seems like he’s curious about what Bruce saw. 

After a moment, Bruce regains control and focuses on Gordon. Gordon looks thoughtful, _dangerous_ , thinks Bruce, but he doesn’t say anything. If he’s not going to, then Bruce isn’t going to offer any information. Finally, Gordon clears his throat and asks, “What did you see?” 

Bruce grumbles, “Just you, or them too?” It works. Gordon looks surprised. The slaves, not surprisingly, look as if they’re listening. 

“Jason, Timothy, what do you think?” asks Gordon. Bruce is a bit surprised that Gordon would ask the input of a slave. He files away the information and reassess his judgement of Gordon slightly. 

Jason, the red-headed slave, who Bruce notes with a pang of sympathy, only appears to be about thirteen or so, nods grimly. Tim, who is even younger than his fellow-in-bondage, has wide eyes. He avoids looking at Bruce, which stings, for some reason. He shakes his head. Bruce feels a pang of sadness. 

He turns to Jason and sees that the boy is meeting his gaze, daringly. As Bruce goes to speak, he steels himself: “In two years, you will die after being captured in a war in Ethiopia.” The boy, despite his brave front, is clearly shaken. He flinches a bit at Bruce’s words and Bruce sees Timothy squeeze his hand quickly. Bruce swallows his emotions and says, “I’m sorry.” Then he turns, marble-faced, to Gordon. 

Gordon meets his hard gaze. Bruce concentrates. “Twenty years…” he begins, frowning. Gordon’s death is fuzzy. That’s never happened before. 

“Yes?” Gordon asks sharply. Bruce frowns, concentrating. 

“I… it’s… _fuzzy_. I’m sorry,” he says. Though, privately, he suspects why it’s fuzzy already. He makes a note to keep an even closer eye on Gordon. 

“Fuzzy,” Gordon echoes, frowning. Bruce sighs. Well, he should give him something more. 

“It means it’s someone big,” he says. 

“Like a GOD?” Gordon asks, looking incredulous, “how do you expect me to believe that? And I bet you’ll die in a century, peacefully in your bed.” 

“Actually, I won’t,” Bruce says. It’s enough to quiet Gordon, who raises one eyebrow at him. Bruce continues seriously, “I don’t actually know how… or when. Call it… Hades’ little _gift_ to his Oracle.” Bruce smirks ironically at the look on Gordon’s face. 

As intended, this seems to disarm Gordon. The man blinks and adjusts his posture slightly. Bruce sits up farther. Gordon seems to notice this, to Bruce’s displeasure, because he relaxes farther back into his chair, a sign of non-threateningness. “I just want to know why you’re here,” he says gently. Bruce does not relax. But he does feel a bit less stressed. 

“I’m just visiting. I’m not planning on _moving_ into Gotham. You don’t have to worry about Hermes spreading negative publicity about your city,” Bruce says sarcastically. Because he just can’t seem to help digging himself holes, apparently. But since Hades will already be after him, he figures it's preferable to be killed by Gordon rather than a God. 

“Well, okay then. I still want to know what you’re doing here,” Gordon says, sounding like he’s suppressing annoyance. 

“I’m just getting supplies. I wasn’t originally planning on staying here even more than a few hours,” Bruce says honestly— he does have a bit of self-preservation after all. Go figure. 

Still, Gordon tenses. “You’re staying near-by? I don’t know if the people will be happy with… a person like you around them,” he says, tone strained. Bruce looks sharply at him, confused. 

“What do you mean, ‘a person like me’?” he asks, puzzled. Gordon’s eyebrows quirk. 

“You’re not…” he starts. Bruce gets it, abruptly. 

“NO,” he rebukes sharply, scowling darkly. He sees Gordon flinch back a bit, and feels a twinge of satisfaction. “That’s why I left in the first place— people seemed to get the _wrong impression of me_ ,” he says darkly, bitingly. 

Now it’s Gordon who looks like he’s figured something out. “What’s your name?” he asks, squinting at Bruce as if he’s just put together a mosaic. Bruce swallows. 

“Bruce,” he says quietly. Gordon’s eyebrows go up, and his moustache twitches. 

“Wayne. Your parents were the ones who ran the temple to Asclepius, weren’t they? Got killed for supposedly harboring a demi-god twenty-two years ago,” Gordon remarks softly, not quite looking at Bruce. Which is a good thing, because the Oracle of Death has murder written in his eyes. And if he were any more of a violent man, it may have turned into that. 

But he isn’t so Bruce takes one sharp breath out his nose. It is enough to make Gordon look up. “Yes, that was them,” Bruce admits quietly, “but the only crime committed was what happened to them. I am as mortal as you and your slaves. Just… _gifted_.” He spits the final word, between suddenly clenched teeth. _And what a gift it is._

Gordon looks sympathetic. Bruce hates pity. He swallows his feelings and schools his face. “Anything else you wanted to know?” he snaps. 

Again, Gordon clears his throat awkwardly. “No… I think we’ve cleared up most of the concerns. I’ll try to get a path cleared for you by nightfall. I’d advise you take it,” Gordon says, standing. He looks back at Bruce, who nods sharply. They’re not exactly driving him out, but he sure as Tartarus _is_ receiving a cold shoulder. That he understands. Not that it stops him from feeling a pang of… remorse? Sadness? Anger? That he is outcast, like this. As Gordon leaves the room, the two teenage slaves follow. Jason shoots him a curious look. Bruce glances away. 

Moments later, Clark reappears. He sticks his head into the doorway, small, concerned smile on his face. Bruce scowls, darker than the Styx. Not that it phases Clark, he’s immortal. He’ll never cross the river. Bruce scowls harder. 

“Well?” Clark asks. 

Bruce growls, “Well, I was charitably invited to leave, so there’s that.” 

Clark frowns. Bruce snaps again, “At least they’re not driving me out with pitchforks and stones.” Clark frowns further. Bruce snarls, and rises from the bed. 

“Where are you going?” Clark asks. 

“Chamber pot,” Bruce says tersely. 

He is not going to the chamber pot. He is leaving. 

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He is unsure where his cart is, but imagines that it is probably a loss. But a cart is not great for fleeing anyway. He will just have to brave the nymph-infested river until he and Alfred can decide where to move to next. Bruce _does_ feel the loss of his knife. Not that he is exactly defenseless without it; if a ‘client’ has a particularly useful skill, Bruce will accept their tutelage as payment. There had once been a Persian woman, Talia, and her father Ra’s, who had taught him much about hand-to-hand combat. He’d also studied with the Spartans. His bag of coins would have been useful, but he has plenty more, and honestly, Clark deserves them. Hopefully he is generous enough to share them with this mysterious Diana for her assistance. 

Bruce has just reached the main floor, and is looking around for a discreet exit when a voice asks, “Going somewhere?” 

Bruce jumps slightly, and turns, brow arched. It _definitely_ isn’t Clark, and nobody else should be able to sneak up on him like that. His questioner is a tall, beautiful, dark-haired woman. _Diana_ , Bruce’s mind supplies. And, curiously, she is blank. Just like Clark. _Curiouser_ , Bruce thinks. He arches a brow as he watches her. And he notices her sharp blue eyes observing right back, as if she knows what he’s thinking. But he says nothing. Even if he’s running away, she _did_ help him, so she deserves that much. 

“I was leaving,” Bruce says bluntly. 

“That is a shame,” Diana says, walking behind the bar, “I was going to fill your cart for you. And Clark, who seems quite to like you, was going to offer to pull it.” Bruce blinks. Lets out a small sigh. Well fuck. He can’t ignore an offer like that. Even if it is a bribe. Diana has the grace not to smile as he comes to sit at the bar. She even pours a glass of wine for him. Bruce takes a sip, and waits for the questions to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aHx4BlF6V2o) for _Come On Get Higher_.
> 
> And here is the [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqM11bt9QvI) for _Can't Stand Me Now_.


	5. This Love Will Tear Me to Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce learns more about Diana. Hades makes a (re)appearance. 
> 
> Chapter title adapted from the song, _Tear Me to Pieces_ by Meg Meyers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "O my mountain hyacinth  
> What shepherds trod upon you  
> With clumsy, rustic foot?  
> Now you are a broken seal:  
> A scarlet stain upon the earth."  
> — _Fragment 105 (c)_ , Sappho

“I do not think we have been formally introduced. I am Diana, this is my inn,” she says calmly, polishing the counter. Bruce takes another sip of the wine, which is quite good, and tries to place her accent. It sounds Greek, but then again, _not_. 

“I’m Bruce,” he says, smiling tightly. Diana nods serenely and their conversation drops. 

Bruce goes back to puzzling out where she might be from. As Diana leans forward to reach a corner of the counter her arms flex, and Bruce catches a flash of a strange tattoo. He frowns momentarily— no free Greek woman would mark herself. In fact, no free Greek would. Bruce has met a few pilgrims from other countries that did tattoo, but it is not done here. He frowns again. 

“I was once an Amazon,” Diana says serenely, still wiping the counter. 

“ _Amazon_ ,” Bruce echoes, surprised. Of course he’d heard of them, but he had never expected to meet one, let alone one that was so… friendly. “But—” 

“What am I doing here?” Diana suggests, smiling wryly. Bruce nods. 

Diana drifts to the water pump. She raises her voice slightly as she pumps. “I was sentenced to exile for two hundred years by the gods for helping my mother incite rebellion against Zeus. And another two hundred more for loving a woman. She was a poet, from Lesbos. And I was marked for it,” she says simply. Deceptively so. There is more to her story, and they have just barely scratched the surface. 

Bruce does the math. _Four hundred years, and yet she looked not a day over thirty_. And her exile was for a rebellion against _Zeus_. He eyes Diana more respectfully. She meets his gaze and smiles. _What a strange world this is_ , Bruce thinks, looking into his wine cup. 

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A bit later, Clark joins them. 

Diana has moved onto the rough-hewn tables. Bruce is still sitting at the bar, but he’s switched to water; it’s been too long since he’s drunk anything, even something as weak as wine. Clark walks down and sits, one bar stool over from Bruce. “I see you two have met,” he says cheerfully. Diana hums in agreement. 

Clark turns back to Bruce. “When do you want to leave?” he asks. Bruce glances outside, surprised to see that the sky is already turning a hue of lavender. He hadn’t felt it getting late. He sighs. 

The truth is, he cannot carry his cart, fully loaded, back to the cave in less than eight or so hours. He doesn’t like to travel at night, either. But he _also_ doesn’t want to show Clark where he lives. The thought of someone else, besides Alfred, knowing that information makes him baulk. Yet it will be practically a Sisyphean task without him. Even if he does ask Clark for help (or rather, accept it), it may very well be better to leave early the next morning. Though Clark may be a demi-god, and Bruce is no slouch at defending himself, traveling at night is still a dangerous ordeal. At the same time, Diana must be bleeding money, keeping her place closed like this, just for his benefit. Bruce feels a flash of shame at that. He’s torn. 

Perhaps he has not concealed his expression enough, because Clark seems to take it in and turns to Diana and asks, before Bruce can object, “Hey, Diana? Do you have an extra sleeping mat? I think we’ll be staying here for the night.” Diana stills a second, but turns, sets down her rag. 

“Yes, I believe so. Let me check,” she says, wandering off. 

Bruce turns to Clark, eyes sharp. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he rebukes, feeling the hot weight of guilt. 

Clark raises an eyebrow. “Did you really want to travel at night?” he asks. Bruce growls. 

“That’s not the point, Clark, I—” 

“Yes, I have extra. I took the liberty of setting one up in your room, Clark,” Diana interrupts. Bruce turns to her, feeling his cheeks heat a bit. He can’t even blame it all on the wine. 

“Let me pay for it,” Bruce says. 

Diana retrieves her rag, moving onto the next group of tables. “There is no need,” she says serenely. Bruce sighs, glaring at her back. _Are all immortals as difficult as these two, because they might just be the death of me_ , Bruce thinks. 

“I know you must be taking a huge cut from keeping this place shut for so long. Name your price and I’ll pay it,” Bruce says firmly. Diana glances his way and must see the intensity of his eyes because she looks considering for a moment and then nods crisply. 

“Money is not my objective for this place, but if it makes you feel better. 82 drachma,” she says. Clark chokes on his wine. Bruce doesn’t blink, too busy running calculations. 

"I have about 20 here. If you can find me a scroll, I’ll write you a note to take to Alfred, and he will get you the rest,” Bruce says. 

Diana nods. “That will be acceptable. Thank you.” 

Clark is still choking a bit. Bruce ignores it. 

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“Hah!” Clark snorts. Bruce joins in, and even Diana smiles. They are seated around one of Diana’s smaller tables in the back, eating plates of figs, cheese, quail eggs, and asparagus. Bruce feels his face flushing and acknowledges distantly that he's definitely tipsy. As they finish up, Diana goes to clear the dishes. Bruce, stumbling, stands to help. 

They end up washing everything together. It is quiet except for the clank of the dishware. Clark has gone outside to load Bruce’s cart. Bruce clears his throat. 

“I wanted to thank you…” he begins awkwardly. 

“For what?” Diana asks simply. 

Bruce blinks, and sets down the plate he’s holding so he doesn’t drop it. “’For what?’” he mimics, tone pitched higher than he’d wanted from his disbelief. He clears his throat again to try and regain some control. “You took me in without question. Shut your business to help a stranger. Are feeding me and giving me supplies. Diana, I don’t—” Bruce huffs, staring at his feet, feeling overwhelmed. _No one had ever been this kind before_. 

Diana dries her hands and sets one gently on Bruce’s shoulder. He startles a little, and she quickly removes her hand. Bruce turns to her, apologizing, “Sorry, I— it gets worse with touch, sometimes. And I’m still a little sensitive.” 

“Perfectly understandable,” Diana says, turning back to the dishes. Bruce, relieved, does too. But he feels comforted all the same. 

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It is late, the early hours of the morning, in fact. The inn is as silent as the woeful temple of Harpocrates. Clark is asleep in the bed, Bruce curled up on his side on the sleeping mat. He almost feels at home on the rough floor. A few minutes later, however, a black mist seems to darken the room. Bruce frowns, throwing out an arm. He turns over and buries himself farther under his blanket. 

Bruce is dreaming. He recognizes this. But still, the dream progresses, odd as it is. He frowns, unsure why his mind chose to take him to Athena’s temple. It is just after sunset, so though it is dark, there is still a slight glow on the horizon. Bruce walks forward. Just as he’s about to put his foot on the first marble step, the earth starts to shake. Bruce gasps as cracks start to appear. He shouts as one opens directly under his feet and swallows him. 

He falls down, through the fiery crack in the earth, and hits the ground with a thump. After a moment, he stands, groaning. He smells brimstone. Heart pounding, he looks around. He appears to be in a massive cavern. But no matter how he looks, or where he walks, his vision only extends about twelve feet out, and then his surroundings gradually fade to black. Bruce frowns. There is an odd, rustling noise. As if there were a river, or bats, somewhere in the vicinity. But other than that, there is silence— the kind of silence that is heavy, and seems to echo. The floor and walls are rough-hewn, and the area is utterly devoid of furniture. Bruce frowns again, anxiety rising. He swallows nervously, and shivers at the slight chill. 

“Well, speak of Eris! Bruce, my favorite Oracle, how ya been?” Hades exclaims. And suddenly, the whole space comes into view. Bruce flinches at the torch light, and takes a quick look around. It is clear now (as if it wasn’t already) that he is in the Underworld. To his right is a field of fire, to his left a deep pit. The cavern is decorated with obsidian carvings and reliefs. Cerberus, who is chained to the left of Hades’ huge throne, barks. Bruce, despite himself, flinches. 

He looks up at the awesome figure of Hades. He is in his formal black robes today, which seem to almost glimmer with how they absorb all light. The God of Death’s hair is standing straight up, brighter than Bruce remembers it being. His sandals are a shimmery, copper-like metal. And he is twelve feet tall— a _giant_ over Bruce. Bruce can feel his heart racing and his mind goes blank, for a second, as Hades fixes his fierce, soul-rending gaze on Bruce. 

“Lord Hades,” Bruce says, frankly terrified. But he’s proud of how little his voice shakes. 

Hades smiles, breath hot death on Bruce’s face. Teeth as terrible and white as a field of a million-million dead. “If the height bothers you, you should have said something. Ah hah heh ho ha,” he says. He stands from the throne and the earth shakes. It takes all of Bruce’s fortitude to stay still. Hades walks forward, shrinking with every step. Soon, he is standing in front of Bruce, normal size. Abruptly, his friendly façade vanishes. He glares promises of torment and torture in Tartarus at Bruce. At this, Bruce takes an instinctive, half-step back. It does not escape the notice of the god, who sends him a blood-splitting, sharp grin. 

“Bruce,” he says, more quietly. A shiver of dread runs up Bruce’s spine. “Why are you in Gotham. With the bastard son of my brother, who I want to kill?” He gives Bruce a pointed look. 

Bruce’s mouth has gone dry as the land scorched by Phaethon. But Hades is still glaring at him and Bruce needs to answer. “It was unintentional, I assure you… I was in Gotham to get supplies, and got… overwhelmed. Clark was there,” Bruce says quietly. 

“So you just bumped into ‘Clark,’” Hades says lowly, dangerously. He snorts. Bruce tenses. 

“Yes,” he dares to say, “As I said, I got overwhelmed by the crowd, and— _he_ was there. Luck,” Bruce says, even more quietly. He wanted to say ‘fate,’ but he’s not sure how well that would go over. 

But Hades catches his drift anyway, his terrible red lips dipping into a frown. Bruce feels nauseous. “Or fate,” he says, tone dropping farther. Bruce wants to run. Abruptly, Hades' gaze snaps back to Bruce. Bruce stiffens, but doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. 

“So, how do I kill him?” Hades asks, falsely-cheerful again. _Oh gods_ , Bruce thinks, sending off a quick prayer. 

“You… can’t” he whispers. 

“What was that?” Hades asks, still pretending to be upbeat. Bruce takes a breath. 

“You can’t kill him, Lord Hades. He’s immortal,” Bruce says a bit louder. 

“Aha hoo he hee ha hah oh!” Hades screeches, “It— It sounds like you’re trying to say _I_ can’t _kill him_.” Bruce flinches. He needs to be very, very careful. 

“I would not presume to know what you can or cannot do, Lord. However, that is what I saw. To my knowledge, he has no death, and will never have a death. Clark is immortal,” Bruce says lowly. Cold, still, dead silence follows this. Bruce wants to keep staring at the floor, but self-preservation prevents it. He looks up. Hades' ancient, soul-destroying gaze is focused observantly on him. 

“You would not lie to me, would you, Bruce?” he asks softly. 

“No,” Bruce says honestly, meeting his gaze, “I would be too afraid to.” 

This apparently satisfies Hades. The god smirks, chuckling again. “Damn right you are! I must say, Bruce, you are one of the wisest Oracles I’ve ever gifted. It’s no wonder I haven’t killed you yet.” 

Bruce is just beginning to relax a tiny bit when Hades roars towards him, growing in size every step. Suddenly he is ten, twenty, _thirty_ feet tall, towering over Bruce. “BUT. If you do lie to me, I will end you. If you do not help me find a way to destroy my brother’s son, I will destroy you.” The god snaps his fingers and suddenly, Bruce is falling in darkness again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research into ancient Greek currecny. From what I could calculate (based off what I read) 82 drachma = about $200 USD, in 2009. So take into account how much the value of the USD has changed since then and you'll have the exact amount.
> 
> Here is the _Poetry Foundation's_ [page on Sappho](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sappho). I highly recommend giving it a read.
> 
> Here's [the official audio](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c92Isg49BOo) for _Tear Me to Pieces_.


	6. Oh, I Had a Dream that You Couldn't Hear Me Screaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce wakes, ready to run. But Diana has other ideas. Coincidentally, so does Clark. 
> 
> Chapter title from the song, _Dream_ by Bishop Briggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "They say that secrets make you sick and I should know  
> Just promise me that if I tell you you will go  
> Oh, oh, oh"  
> — _Dream_ , Bishop Briggs

Bruce wakes with a choked gasp. He sits up, heart pounding. He actually dry gags for a moment. But he needs air too much and ends up wheezing. Bruce sees, as his gaze whirls around frantically, that Clark (somehow) has remained asleep. 

_He has to get out of here, he has to get out of here. He needs to leave, leave now. Disappear. Find some place even Alfred will never find him. Because he cannot kill Clark. It is impossible. He will not kill Clark, who is so good, and sweet, and pure, and sends dizzying butterflies through Bruce’s stomach when he looks at him with his blue eyes. Bruce is doomed. Doomed. And there is no running from Hades, he knows, not truly. But Bruce cannot help his instincts. And at least he can (probably) delay. He can more than likely save Alfred, and Diana. Perhaps Clark too._

Bruce silently lurches to his feet, hunting around in the dark for his shoes, knife. He finds them and silently wraps them in his sleeping mat. He sends a silent mental apology to Diana, but thinks that she’d understand. He realizes he’s been close to hyperventilating and takes a breath, opening the door. Just as he’s silently shut it and is creeping down the hall, Diana’s door opens and Bruce is caught, illuminated by the warm, flickering light of Diana’s candle. 

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Diana takes one quiet look at Bruce’s too-wide eyes, and pale sweaty face, the obviously-suspicious and quickly-packed sleeping mat, and frowns. Bruce feels frozen, for a different reason this time. But he cannot get that image of Hades, more massive than a mountain, louder than the earth, out of his mind. Wildly, he hopes Diana does not try to stop him. 

“Bruce,” she hisses, barely louder than the flicker of her flame, “what are you doing?” 

“What are you doing?” he hisses back, bristling. 

Diana huffs, looking impatient. “ _I_ was on my way to say my morning prayers to Artemis. But you did not answer my question.” 

Bruce growls, but silences himself with a sharp look from Diana. That’s right. Clark, somehow, is still sleeping. “I— I need to leave _now_ ,” he murmurs firmly, “and I can’t tell you why. I’m sorry, Diana. You don’t deserve this. Tell Clark… tell Clark I’m sorry too.” 

Bruce moves to creep forward, heart sinking at Diana’s silence behind his back. Just as he’s reached the stairs, Diana whispers calmly, “Is this because of Hades?” Bruce stills more completely than if he’d been caught in Medusa’s fearsome gaze. _Although_ , he thinks, _that would probably be preferable to whatever Hades had planned for him._

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Somehow, Diana manages to cross the dark hall silently. She reaches Bruce’s side and grasps his arm firmly, pulling him down the stairs. Bruce follows, reeling. Once downstairs, she sets the candle on a table, pushes him into a seat, and somehow, has taken his hastily-packed things and hidden them somewhere. Bruce blinks. 

Diana reemerges from the dark with a glass of water. She plunks it in front of Bruce. He downs it thirstily. After a moment, Diana sits across from him, one hand gliding across the table to cover Bruce’s. It is both comforting and a measure to prevent him from leaving. Bruce frowns. 

“How did you know it was Hades?” he asks firmly. 

Diana’s eyes glitter in the dark, candle-lit room. “I have my own gifts,” she says mysteriously, “Now. Tell me about your problem.” 

Bruce takes a deep breath. 

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“And so I need to leave. Now,” he says urgently. Diana frowns. Sighs. 

“Very well, if you think it best… I will tell Clark goodbye for you,” she says standing. Bruce nods gratefully, and goes to stand too. Diana hesitates and turns around. Bruce stops his movements. “Actually. On second thought, before you leave Bruce, can you please write down how I can contact Alfred? Just in case you ever need to come to Gotham again, or in case I need to contact you,” Diana says thoughtfully. 

Bruce hesitates one second, suspicious. But then, Diana had been _more_ than helpful to him. “Of course,” he says, “if you’ll find me a piece of papyrus and quill.” 

Diana nods. “Yes. One minute.” She leaves, quickly striding away. Bruce tries not to feel alone in the mostly-dark room. It is a losing battle. 

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After a moment, Diana returns. She puts down a scrap of papyrus and a brush with ink. “Here you go, Bruce,” she says softly. Diana retreats and takes a seat on a bar stool. A moon beam shines on her, and she looks rather like a statue. Bruce shivers momentarily and tears his gaze away. He’s overreacting, still shaken from the night’s earlier events. He quickly scribbles down Alfred’s address and adds a short message (so that he’ll believe Bruce really sent Diana) on the back. 

Bruce sets it on the table and goes to stand. But as he rises, he feels woozy and sinks down onto the bench again with a thump. He gazes over at Diana. She is still sitting at the bar stool, watching. Bruce blinks suddenly heavy eyelids. “You drugged me,” he slurs. Then, with a thud, he collapses on the table. 

Diana waits a moment, then slides off her seat. “I am sorry,” she apologizes quietly to Bruce’s sleeping form. She goes to get the rope. There is much to do in the short hours before daybreak. 

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A gentle rocking motion is what Bruce is first aware of, as if he is on a _boat_. He frowns, blinks, and sits up dazedly. Bruce goes to rub his eyes but a sharp pain in his shoulders prevents him. Bruce gives another experimental tug, frowning. His hands are tied behind his back and he can’t move them more than a few inches. Bruce looks around and realizes, he is in a cart. His gaze sharpens and he tries to figure out where he is from his surroundings, and with a pang of acute alarm, he realizes he has absolutely _no idea_ where he is. 

“Hi,” Clark’s voice says cheerfully. Bruce swivels (as much as he can) to see him. He glares. It does not, one iota, affect his companion’s enthusiasm. “He’s awake!” Clark calls to, presumably, Diana. Bruce strains to sit up farther. And yes, he can just see Diana’s head over the mountain of stuff in the back of the cart, in front of where Clark and Bruce are sitting. 

“You _kidnapped_ me,” Bruce growls. 

Clark looks affronted. “For a good cause,” he answers. Bruce blinks. 

“What,” Bruce snaps, eyes hotter and brighter with anger than one of Zeus’ lightning bolts, “ _in Hera_ … Do you know how worried Alfred—” 

“Alfred understands. I contacted him this morning,” Diana interjects. Bruce growls. 

Clark eyes Bruce more seriously. Bruce hisses, muscles itching to hit Clark. “Untie me,” he orders darkly. 

Sympathetically, Clark says, “No.” 

“Metrokoites,” Bruce curses. Clark flinches. Bruce sighs, adjusting his position. “If you’re not going to untie me, will you at least tell me where we are?” he asks icily. 

Clark flinches again. But his tone is steady when he answers, “We’re about nine miles from Gotham. We’re going to see the Amazons.” 

Bruce jerks back. “What,” he says, pausing for emphasis “ _the fuck_.” 

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Clark looks at Bruce sympathetically. It can’t be comfortable to be tied-up like that. He feels a bit bad about it, but ultimately agrees with Diana. It is necessary. He blinks again, disturbed. Diana had woken him up last night? (this morning?) before the sunrise and explained everything. How Bruce was being threatened by Hades. How Hades expected Bruce to figure out a way to kill Clark. How Bruce had planned on running away and hiding from the god for as long as he could. That they needed to go and see the Amazons. “We rebelled against _Zeus_ once,” Diana had said, “for advice on fighting a god, there is no one better.” 

“Wait,” Clark had said, “‘we’?” 

Diana had looked startled for a second. Then looked at Clark and smiled. “I am an Amazon.” Clark had merely stood there gaping. Until Diana tossed him an empty sack and ordered, “Go start packing.” Clark complied. 

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Clark shakes his head and returns to the present. He realizes that Bruce is still silently glaring at him. “We’re going to the Amazons because we think they can help us,” Clark explains. 

This gets a reaction from Bruce. He looks surprised for a brief moment, then schools his expression and sits up straighter. “ _‘Us_ ,'” he says snarkily, “this is not—” 

“Diana told me all about _your_ problem, Bruce,” Clark interrupts, tone soft. Bruce shuts up and looks away. But Clark can still see his crystalline blue eyes and he doesn’t like how they darken with pain and worry. Clark presses on, “When were you going to tell me about that?” 

Bruce is still avoiding his gaze. He swallows. Finally, his troubled eyes dart quickly up to Clark’s face, and away again. Clark waits, feeling hollowed out. _Gods, he had it bad._ “I wasn’t,” Bruce says finally, softly. “I was going to avoid you, for as long as I could, originally. I was planning on never speaking to you, if I could help it. Then, when that proved… impossible, I was planning to let Diana and you help me and _then_ on disappearing.” 

Bruce looks up, clearly wanting to see Clark’s reaction. Sure enough, Clark’s frowning. And why shouldn’t he be? It _hurts_. Bruce swallows again and looks away, lips pursed. 

Finally, Clark starts, “The Amazons—” 

“The Amazons won’t be able to do shit,” Bruce spits, “not against Hades; and before you tell me about how they had a rebellion against Zeus, I _know_. But this is _Hades_ the God of Death, and he plays by different rules. Clark, I have dealt with him all my life, and he is ruthless. If he wants something, he _will_ get it— one way or another, eventually. Your safest— your _only_ options are to keep your head down and get out of the way, pray he never gains interest in you, or to do as he asks,” Bruce sighs, shoulders slumping defeatedly, before he continues, voice hushed, “trust me, I know. There is no winning against Hades.” 

Clark swallows, mouth dry. “Would you have told him how to kill me?” he asks softly. 

After a moment of hesitation, Bruce answers simply: “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqsiJPK-94Q) for _Dream_.
> 
> Metrokoites = ancient Greek for motherfucker


	7. I Just Want to Be, But They Are Coming After Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey continues. Bruce has... some concerns.
> 
> Chapter title from the song, _Mr. Doctor Man_ by Palaye Royale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Up down but the world keeps spinning round and round  
> I see this place ain't big enough for me  
> I want you to take me away way, way, way"  
> — _Mr. Doctor Man_ , Palaye Royale

It has been three days, and Bruce is worried. As soon as they were far enough from Gotham that it would be impractical for Bruce to run, Diana had requested that Clark untie him. Clark had grimly gone about his task, not quite meeting Bruce’s gaze. The expression of _hurt_ makes something in Bruce’s stomach roil. At first, he names it sadness, but his brain says differently: it is rage. _What_ , Bruce thinks, _does Clark know about what Bruce’s life is like? What does Clark know about having a god threaten you, demand things of you, torment you?_ He doesn’t. But under the anger, Bruce admits privately, he is hurt. Does Clark not understand that Bruce had not _wanted_ to hurt him? That he had been running to _save_ Clark? Apparently, he does not. Something cracks inside of Bruce. He is not sure how much more breakage he can endure. He turns his gaze out to watch the countryside, stifling a yawn. 

It has been three days since their mismatched band of travelers had left Gotham. The first day, after his discussion with Clark, Bruce had been seething mad. And upset, oh yes. And ashamed. But also angry. It was not their _right_ to get involved, not their right to look past the shrine to Dolos that was his _life_. But, underneath the anger, the upset, the shame, was a profound, gnawing anxiety. Hera help him, Bruce had not wanted, had _never_ wanted anyone else to have to feel Hades’ wrath as he had had to. And now, these two idiots had thrown their lot in with his. Bruce couldn’t help but compare himself to Atalanta, only Diana and Clark did not realize that his running was triggered by fear, and that their golden apples: friendship, well-meaning, _goodness_ might have captured Bruce, but they had doomed them all. If Bruce was unable to outrun what chased him— which was a terrible god, the god of _death_ — he could not save his friends. It was a slow-moving tragedy that only Bruce had the foresight to see. 

It has been three days, and Bruce has not slept. He is too worried to sleep. Miraculously, neither Clark nor Diana notice. They are too busy planning, both the route, and what to do to make the Amazons listen; Diana seems to admit that her time away from the island may have changed her (Bruce does not ask how many centuries it has been since she has seen her sisters). All members of this pitiful group acknowledge that the rest of the Amazons more than likely will not be as… helpful towards Bruce and Clark as Diana is. “But I will persuade them,” Diana says calmly, with perfect confidence. Bruce believes she is stubborn enough to try, and that she fully intends to, but in his heart-of-hearts he doubts. So, it has been a busy, _full_ three days. Neither Diana nor Clark pay overly-careful attention to Bruce, which he does not mind. This allows him time to think, and means they do not question his sleeping habits. 

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Bruce has always suffered from nightmares. They worsened after his parents died, worsened after Hades started visiting him regularly, worsened after his first time in a major city. So Bruce is familiar with the power of Phobos. If he ever avoids making a single mistake, it is the mistake of pissing off that particular god. It is fear, worry, dread, anxiety, that usually make sleeping difficult. But now, Bruce resolutely _refuses_ to bow to Hypnos’ power. Hades has proven more-than-willing to haunt his dreams, and Bruce does not want to attract his attention. Bruce does not feel keen on having ‘regular’ nightmares, either, which he knows he will. There is a _reason_ Bruce had been running, and it is because he is terrified. 

The cart is gently rocking, Diana and Clark speaking in low murmurs that fade together. Bruce’s head tilts and he jolts awake as he feels his body falling forward. Clumsily, he shoots out a hand and catches himself. Absently, he feels his hand throb from where he’d hit it on the side of the cart. Bruce shakes his head, and winces as a fly passes by his head. _Two minutes, frog._ Bruce shakes his head again, letting out a huff of breath. His eyes feel leaden, and they flicker like a slave boy’s fan on a hot day. He feels his head drooping again, and catches himself. The cycle repeats. Clark and Diana are still murmuring ahead. Bruce dolefully turns his gaze to the sky, and prays to Athena for guidance. He feels adrift. 

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They stop the cart when Helios’ chariot is high in the sky. Diana parks the cart in the shade of a tree, by a river. She dutifully informs Bruce that the river is nymph-free, to which he nods woodenly. Gods, he is so tired. Clark glances back at him in concern, and Bruce cannot help the liquid smile that steals over his face, nor the butterflies when Clark’s eyes sparkle. He is like ambrosia, like water to Tantalus; sweeter for Bruce’s inability to have him. Bruce stumbles a little as his head goes woozy. Clark inquires after him. Bruce lies, claiming travel-stiff legs. Clark and Diana, as immortals, can only nod in mock-sympathy. This momentarily gives Bruce something else to be bitter about. He is not sure when he started thinking of Clark as _his_. It is something he will need to change— or perhaps he is just delirious from a lack of sleep. 

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Clark and Diana have been talking. Clark has always had a curious nature, so much so that his mother had occasionally joked that maybe he was Hermes’s son instead of Zeus.’ Diana, as usual, is extremely gracious, and answers most of Clark’s questions willingly. Those she does not, Clark does not press; not only would that be _rude_ , but everyone is entitled to their secrets. Though some take that too far. Like Bruce. Clark frowns. Zeus, or more accurately, _Aphrodite_ , help him, he _cares_ for the Oracle. Even though, clearly, the other man does not return his sentiments. At first, Clark had thought he might have, but now… If Bruce does, he hides it extremely well, like most other things about himself. 

And yes, while it is true that Clark is, somewhere deep inside himself, _terrified_ that Hades is after him, he is also a hero. Heroes do not run from battle. Bruce clearly needs help, and his problem has turned into (had _always been_ in fact) Clark’s problem. So Clark is determined to help. Bruce is a good man, despite his struggles, and he does not deserve to face the wrath of a god alone— no one does. Clark sighs. Diana glances over, curiously. 

“Something troubling you, Clark?” she inquires. Clark blushes, studying the shrubbery on the side of the dirt road. 

“Perhaps. I’m… worried about Bruce,” he admits. Privately, he thinks, _Oh, I’m a good-deal more than ‘worried’ about that man_. 

“Hm,” Diana says, “as am I. I am… relieved to not be the only one, for it means my concern has merit. I am unsure if he has been sleeping. I did not want to bring it up if my concern was unwarranted. Thank you, Clark. I will speak to him.” She turns back to watch the road ahead. Clark just gapes at the side of her face for a moment. Maybe it is just _her_ , but Clark suspects that some of Diana’s wisdom must come from her age. Which is another thing to brood about, age. According to Bruce, Clark himself will have no age. Clark frowns, and represses the urge to sigh again. That is not something he is willing to discuss with Diana. Yet. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

Diana corners him as they pull over for the night. Clark has gone to gather firewood, and to hunt for dinner. Kindly, neither Diana nor he expect Bruce to participate in this. Bruce had believed himself alone, and so had allowed himself to bury his head in his hands as he crouched on a fallen tree stump. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. And that was when Diana cornered him. 

“Bruce,” Diana says, something formidable in her tone. Or maybe that is just Diana. “Bruce, do not lie to me. I am going to ask you a question and I want the truth. When was the last time you slept?” At that, Bruce jumps slightly (he is still not used to people being able to sneak up on him. It will be hell when he is around normal people again) and scowls. It is none of her business. 

“Bruce,” she says, with more concern this time. Bruce blinks, and realizes he’d gone cross-eyed. Ah. That would explain why things were so blurry. He shakes his head again. “Bruce,” Diana says kindly, coming to squat by his side. She puts a hand on his shoulder, and he leans into her blissful blankness. It is almost as good as Clark’s. Diana sighs, and Bruce realizes she had been going to say something. He opens his eyes and focuses on not letting himself slip away into his ‘sight.’ 

“I am worried about you,” Diana says frankly. “You are clearly not alright if you cannot even keep focus on me—” Bruce realizes he’s slipped into that blissful, blank place within himself again— “and we are headed to Metropolis. I need you to be able to maintain functionality. That means sleep.” Bruce scowls, and nails Diana with a stare. 

He had known, in the back of his mind, that they would eventually encounter another city… He had even, vaguely, thought they might encounter Metropolis. But he had not, until this moment, really _realized_ this. And now, Diana was claiming to be worried about his ability to control his sight. While he internally acknowledged that this was fair (given what she’d seen in Gotham) he did not like that Diana thought him so weak. His sleep-deprived brain screamed and raged at this, and so Bruce’s reply was rather sharp: “I have managed in cities my entire life, Diana. I have managed this— this _curse_ my entire life. I will survive it.” 

Diana merely looks at him a moment. “Not without sleep. You can barely focus around _me_ right now. How will you focus around millions?” Bruce’s stomach clenches and his heart drops. He feels suddenly cold. Her point made, Diana stands. Bruce glares after her. Perhaps she has a point. But then again, she has never faced Bruce’s nightmares. 

The next day, Bruce is so tired he almost whines as Diana’s movements about camp wake him. He sits up with a huff, and almost visibly flinches as Diana leads their mule over to the cart; when she noticed that it bothered Bruce, Diana had started tying up the creature farther away so Bruce’s senses wouldn’t perturb him. But now, without sleep, the curse is like a hammer in his temple. Clark stands, stretches, and wanders closer to Bruce. And that blissful blankness in his head, at Clark’s nearness, nearly makes Bruce tip over. Thankfully, Clark has gone to get a drink of water, and so does not notice Bruce’s lurch. But Bruce remembers Diana’s comments from the previous night, and even catches himself going cross-eyed. _Godsdamnit_. But Bruce is deeply, deeply afraid of what will come to him in sleep. He blinks, and refocuses his gaze on the trees behind Clark’s back. Diana, unknown to him, watches them both. 

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Diana, curse her, has decided that day that Clark should ride in back with Bruce. She seems to recognize that their nearness gives Bruce, somehow, a kind of relief. Like an analgesic. Clark seems to be not-completely in the dark, because as the morning wears on, he sits across from Bruce and gazes wordlessly out at the landscape. Bruce blinks, watching the river flow smoothly and slowly behind Clark’s head. The road underneath is gentle, and the day is not yet hot. The cart rocks very slightly. Bruce’s eyes close. He wakes halfway to the floor, Clark’s hands pressed into his biceps. Blearily, Bruce blinks up at him. He does not have enough energy to be startled. “Bruce,” Clark says, gently admonishing. 

Bruce allows himself to be guided to a particularly soft sack in the pile of things in the back (he believes it is someone’s sack of clothing, or perhaps bedding) and allows Clark to set him back against it. Bruce sinks into the softness with a sigh, and is out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nzM134EhSFQ) to _Mr. Doctor Man_.


	8. What If I Left?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and company finally see Metropolis. A certain acrobatic youth makes the acquaintance of the Oracle of Future and Death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry updates have been so slow for this!!! I usually (I swear) am not this bad, but school and life were CRAZY recently; I've been too busy to write. But!!! I'm (hopefully) back now, and will continue this (and my other) story(ies). Thanks for understanding, here is a loooong chapter. Chapter title from the same song as quote below.
> 
> "Alright, I'm ready now, ready now  
> I ain't gonna, I ain't gonna fall back down now  
> Alright, I'll take it on, take it on me"  
> — _Nevermind_ , Dennis Lloyd

When Bruce wakes, he is unsure of where he is, or of the time. It has become cloudier since he went (was _lured_ into) sleep. His mouth feels drier than the island of Lemnos and tastes fouler than a sharp critique made by Momus would to a tyrant’s pride. Bruce also wakes to mounting pressure somewhere behind the middle of his forehead. The sensation does not bode well. It is as if a great dam had been erected over the Aliakmonas, and his head has unwittingly become a key part of its structure. He is fairly positive that the pressure means that their small band of _adventurers_ is near to a city. That city can only be Metropolis. Bruce grimaces. 

If the mounting pressure, both psychological and physiological, weren’t enough, he also sees upon more careful inspection, the (distant) stone edifices of large buildings— it can be nothing else that the city’s acropolis; Bruce errantly hopes that they will pass by Athena’s temple. If pressed, he would not deny that he is in need of her wisdom and guidance. 

As they grow nearer, more of the large, ornate temples loom out of the ground, echoing Persephone’s yearly reappearances. Bruce grimaces again at even the hint of a connection to the realm of Hades. They are no more than a day out from the city. They soon pass by the usual grouping of temples (and Metropolis’ wealth is apparent, from how the marble gleams white, the cleanliness of the carvings, and their lively colors. Also, even from the dusty path, Bruce can smell the slightly-seared scent of offerings) to Zeus, Hera, Hermes, Apollo, Aphrodite. Thankfully, Bruce notes with a slight chill, there does not appear to be a temple to Hades; or if there is one, it isn’t visible from the road. 

Soon, he gets an eyeful of a rather distasteful statue outside of a small, but ornate, temple— a life-sized marble of a young woman carrying flowers. The temple must be for the city’s patron protector, as the statue is clearly meant to be Elpis, patroness of Metropolis, and if the indirect clues did not make that apparent, there is the transcription, from Hesiod’s _Works and Days_ at its base: 

“Only Hope was left within her unbreakable house,

she remained under the lip of the jar, and did not 

fly away.”

_As if I needed any more reason to hate this city,_ Bruce thinks, snorting. He is interrupted from his brooding by the appearance of Clark. He smiles brightly at Bruce, and says, “Good morning… er, afternoon, actually. We’re almost there.” 

Bruce blinks, mouth going even drier. He draws a blank for a second. The silence hangs awkwardly between them. Finally, Bruce manages to stupidly stammer, “I know. I… The statue over there— Elpis.” Bruce blinks. Clark blinks. The silence is back. Bruce opens his mouth to say something else, something that doesn’t make him sound like an overly-devoted follower of Dionysus. Diana interrupts. _Thank the gods, because there was no way he’d be able to redeem himself in Clark’s eyes now. Not that it should matter, godsdamnit_. 

Diana says— from the driver’s seat up front where she has been the entire time, and Bruce wonders, _does she even sleep?_ — “We should arrive sometime early tomorrow. Hera permitting, we will not be more than a day or two in the city. We shall need to find aquatic transportation, supplies, and devise a route forwards. Then we will move on.” Clark nods. Bruce frowns slightly, but neutralizes his expression when he catches Clark’s worried gaze on him. 

Privately, he continues to worry, because even a day or two sounds like a long time. Despite his claims, Bruce _is_ worried about his ability to maintain control. Though there are many reasons he dislikes Metropolis, one of them is the size of the city. Gotham is a proper city, albeit nowhere near the size of a place like Athens, but Metropolis is even larger. In addition, it is just too hopeful for Bruce; being the oracle of _death_ does tend to make one pessimistic. He sighs, and turns back to looking out at the passing countryside. _What we need is a plan, not hope_ , Bruce thinks anxiously. He has a bad feeling about this. 

But that could just be his pessimism speaking. 

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Clark is relieved when Bruce finally wakes, because he’d slept for nearly _fifteen hours_ , after his… collapse. Fifteen hours was enough time for them to leave behind the ancient, shaded pine forests that still lingered in the unsettled lands between Gotham and Metropolis. Once they left the forests, they entered the familiar, flat, and hot, grassy farmland that Clark is so fond of. Despite the seriousness of their situation, he can’t help but feel at least a bit happier to be back in familiar territory. Clark had grown up in this area, in the tiny polis of ἐλαχύς. He smiles. But his happiness fades as he hears Bruce’s voice turn harsh, and angry. He is sitting next to Diana, and they are clearly arguing.

Clark abruptly remembers that if they fail, _he_ is (most likely) not the one who will suffer. This thought makes him grimace and shoots a sour pang through his stomach as he imagines Bruce being hurt, or _worse_. Clark also recalls that jarring conversation from days ago: _“‘Would you have told him how to kill me?’ ‘Yes’”_. That, more than anything should serve as a reminder that no matter how fun this journey may be at times, he cannot lose focus. _And it’s not just Bruce’s life that’s in danger_ , he reminds himself, _but yours too. It is **Hades** who wants to kill you, after all. Don’t forget it_. Forgetting that his life is _endable_ , despite what Bruce says, will get Clark killed. Forgetting that he can die is the _definition_ of hubris, and hubris is the flaw that has brought low many a great hero. He cannot be hubristic. 

With that chilling thought, Clark tunes back into reality, noticing that Diana’s exasperated voice now vies with Bruce’s for sheer volume. He grits his teeth and hops out of the cart, displacing a small cloud of dust. Clark ignores this, and jogs around the slowly-moving vehicle to the front. He grabs ahold of the side panel and flings himself over it. Bruce jumps slightly as Clark’s weight settles in— slightly too close— and their hands accidentally brush. Clark flushes, though there definitely isn’t a reason he should. “What’s going on?” he asks. 

Bruce scowls petulantly, and Clark erases the thought of _how cute_ that particular expression looks on him with annoyance. “We were arguing over how, exactly, to _discreetly_ get a boat and crew, and how we are going to _discreetly and quickly_ leave the city. I was just telling Diana that by now Hades will have spies all around this area and we’d be fools to think otherwise. I don’t think we can afford to just go running around the city, hoping for the best. We need a plan—” 

“And I,” Diana interrupts firmly, shooting an intense stare at Bruce, who ignores it, “told Bruce that he needs to have a bit more faith. I have not survived for more than _a century_ in Man’s world by not having my methods. We will find a way, and we _will_ be careful. There is nothing to worry about. At least, not yet.” 

Bruce sighs. The he mutters, “I disagree. You are underestimating Hades, Diana, and I won’t let us all get kill—” 

“Alright!” Clark barks, before he’s even planned on opening his mouth. “Enough arguing. Diana, I don’t think Bruce is _trying_ to be obstinate,” he fixes a look on Bruce, who looks away, and almost seems to be blushing, “and Bruce, Diana is _not_ being thoughtless. If we can’t work together, we won’t be able to do anything. So, why don’t we start over?” Thankfully, this seems to appease Diana. She stops glaring daggers at Bruce and nods once, stiffly. Bruce’s jaw is still clenched, and his right fist is closed, hovering next to Clark’s own left hand. He can almost feel the heat of it. _Stop that_ , he tells his brain. “Bruce?” he asks calmly. 

There’s a sigh. Then, not looking at him, Bruce snaps, “Fine” but doesn’t look any happier. 

Clark thinks, _That will have to do for now_ , and says, “Great. Let’s start over then. What do we need to do, and how do we want to do it?” 

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After another long (heated) discussion, they finally agree on a plan that is acceptable to both Bruce and Diana; Bruce still grumbles though. But Clark suspects it’s out of principle more than anything else. He feels somewhat exhausted. Of course, it could be the long day of traveling. It was hot today, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky; Diana had added an extra stop to the itinerary to rest and water the mule. Though Clark doesn’t usually tire that easily. _I guess that’s what happens when you’re dealing with an oracle and a possible goddess_ , he thinks, bemused.

“Clark,” Bruce says impatiently, and taps him on the shoulder. Clark snaps to attention. Bruce looks at him, expression somewhere between amusement, annoyance and… something else. Fondness? Bemusement? Whatever it is, it is a far cry from his previous stormy expression, or even his bitterness of the past days. 

“Y-yes?” Clark asks, startled. He feels his mouth twist up into a smile, and almost chastises himself, before seeing that Bruce’s mouth does the same. Although his smile is smaller, almost shy. His pulse jumps. _Get yourself together_. 

Bruce blinks, and clears his throat. “Diana told me that you’re from around here. Do you know any places we can stay?” Clark recognizes an olive branch when he sees one. It is a relief not to be arguing about something. Again. 

“Oh, right. It’s been a while since I’ve been here, but if memory serves, we’ll want to go down by the bay. That’s where most of the hostels and inns are. But, we’ll want to stay up higher. It can get… interesting, closer to the water,” Clark says, “but it will also cost more.” 

“That’s no problem. I can pay,” Bruce says. 

“Bruce, are you sure? That doesn’t seem fair,” he protests. Clark casts his gaze towards Diana, in hopes of finding backup, but she hold still as stone, steady. Bruce snorts derisively, refocusing Clark. 

“It’s the least I can do. I’m the one who got us into this whole mess,” he says. Clark frowns. _Not this again._ He’s about to say something, but Diana beats him to it. 

“That is a blatant lie. You did not get us ‘into this whole mess’ as you say,” she says serenely, but also, somehow, with an undercurrent of force. Perhaps it is the conviction with which she says everything else. “It is fate that we are with you, Bruce. Or luck. No one was gotten into this mess at all. We chose to accompany you into it. After all, the storms cast by Zeus affect all, do they not? So will any of Hades’ tantrums affect the mortal world.” Bruce just stares at her, eyes like lightening reflected in the waves, shoulders tense. Finally, he sits back, looking somewhat more relaxed. Clark lets out a breath. 

“Fine. If that’s what you think,” he says quietly. His gaze meets Clark’s anxious one. It is not a happy look in his eyes. Clark frowns, and almost says something. 

“Look!” Diana calls— sounding genuinely excited— and points to the stone tablet by the roadside, which reads, ‘Welcome to Metropolis,’ “we have arrived.” Bruce’s head is turned away from Clark now, and he looks tense for another reason. _Right_ , Clark thinks, _other people_. They’re in a large city again, and Bruce isn’t good with people, because of his sight. Suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a great idea any longer. 

~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`

It is nearly 10 p.m. when they finally find an inn that seems acceptable.

True to Clark’s recollection, the hostels, and inns (if they can even be called _that_ ), by the docks are not worth investigating. Diana seems quite appalled by the various levels of skullduggery, thievery, prostitution, and general sleaze here. Bruce remembers her own, clean, and (obviously) well-run establishment. Here, Bruce almost wants to say, I fit right in. The rest of Metropolis is far cleaner than Gotham, but here, it is apparent, Atë has many devotees, no matter their location. 

They move away from the water, and find a small white-washed establishment tucked around the corner from a now-closed stoa. Bruce’s hunches that this is the market district are confirmed when Clark adds, “They must have expanded the agora, and the public market, since I was last here! There wasn’t a place for people to eat in bad weather here when I left.” 

“Hm,” Bruce says. Diana says nothing. Bruce smirks. When she wants to be, Diana is quieter than him, and can be just as bad at small talk; though, in her case, it is often a _deliberate_ lack of skill. They get the cart unloaded and Diana pays the stable attendant. He looks a bit scared after she leaves. Though Clark looks a bit put out, Bruce is not. It would not do to have their transportation stolen, even if this isn’t quite as rough a neighborhood as they were in earlier. 

They enter the torch-lit inn, and meet the night attendant. It is 25 drachma a night, and Bruce can practically hear Clark choking at the price. So it is good for him that Bruce is the one paying. They agree to the price, and Bruce quietly adds an extra five coins to the attendants hands for fresh water and a meal for each of them. 

Bruce and Clark will share a room; Diana gets her own. “I do not mind sharing with you,” she had said earlier. Bruce would not have objected, and if he had not, Clark (whatever his true opinion on the matter is) would have kept quiet, or been overruled. But, Bruce knew a thing or two about not turning heads, and so informed Diana that, unfortunately, for discretion’s sake, this would not be possible. She had scoffed, and said, “I had not realized Man’s world was quite so backward in this way too.” 

“Well, we are,” Bruce had replied, and that was that. 

Now, Bruce is exhausted, and nervous, for some reason, to share the same space as Clark. It is one thing when they are traveling, because there is Diana, and the distractions of the road. It’s different when they are alone in the dark, with nothing but their own thoughts and the presence of the other man. But Bruce puts this out of his head. For all he knows, Clark could still be harboring a grudge over the fact that Bruce was almost an accomplice to his (would be) murder. 

He frowns. Though this is possible, some internal hunch tells him it is not likely (and Bruce trusts his hunches, even ones that may be self-serving) because Clark does not _seem_ angry… merely sad, for _him_ , when Bruce catches him watching. Either that, or he is friendly. Or sometimes, impatient for them to not argue. Above all, Clark is… kind. But, it does not matter what Bruce thinks. What matters is that they find a ship, supplies, a route, and help. He cannot lose sight of the bigger picture, which is that Hades is coming for him (them). This sobers his thoughts, and turns his mouth bitter. When has it ever mattered what Bruce wants? 

They reach the rooms, but don’t unpack much; this will be a short stay, gods willing. Soon after their arrival, the water and food arrive. Clark looks surprised, and Bruce feels stunned a moment at his grateful smile and casual, “Thanks, Bruce! You didn’t have to.” Thankfully, Diana knocks in that moment, and spares Bruce the agony of needing to come up with a response. _Maybe that is one of her ‘abilities,’_ Bruce muses dramatically, _good timing_. They all eat together, and Bruce smiles more than he has for a while before this trip. And even for him, who is used to traveling, it is nice to take a break from the road again. 

Diana eventually leaves, and Clark requests (demands) that since Bruce paid for the hotel, for their food, and for the wash bucket, he use it first. So Bruce does, and even with the limitedness of it, he feels better. Then Clark washes. They place it outside for one of the servants to pick up. And Bruce’s fears of having to make small talk with Clark, alone together in the dark, don’t come to fruiting. Yawning, Clark says, somehow sounding both sleepy and cheerful, “Good night, Bruce. Sleep well. See you tomorrow.” 

Bruce freezes a moment, feeling warm. Finally, he manages, “Good night, Clark.” 

He blows out the remaining candle. 

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It is much later when Bruce wakes with a thundering pulse, gasping, and tangled in sheets. He’s not sweating, but his hands are shaking, and the prickling of his skin signals that it was indeed a nightmare. Bruce can’t remember the details of it, but it was clearly a bad one, given the dull pounding of his pulse and the faint nausea he feels. Somewhere, there’s an unborn scream in him, too.

Bruce sits up, and the bed creaks. He risks a glance over at Clark, who merely sighs, and turns over. After a few deep breaths, and mental reminders: _you are in control, it won’t bother you if you don’t let it, don’t be such a godsdamned coward, Bruce, it’s your own fucking mind_ he manages to calm down more. But now, he’s wide awake. If Bruce’s experience with nightmares has taught him nothing else, it is how his sleep cycle works. And post-nightmare— post- _bad_ nightmare, he’s not getting back to sleep. 

So he slides out of bed, grabs the room key, and his knife. He stumbles across his shoes, and barely holds in a loud curse. Clark, as has been proven before, is a heavy sleeper. Bruce carries his sandals into the hall and pulls them on impatiently. “Kynotos,” he mutters, and makes his way down the stairs. Bruce feels tense, for some reason, and he abruptly recalls why it feels strange to be walking around by himself; he doesn’t have his ‘shields’ with him. Anything he _sees_ will affect him, now. It makes him pause in the dark doorway for a moment, but long years of self-sufficiency (coupled with pride) get him to push past this. 

Bruce walks out into the cool night air, and at first, doesn’t feel overwhelmed, though the increased pressure in his head doesn’t feel great. As he moves farther from the inn, he wonders if it’s because he’s somehow attuned himself to Clark and Diana. He frowns. _A thought for later_. Bruce yawns, but continues his silent meandering of the (now early morning) streets. Though visions do come to him, it is (somehow) easier to brush them off than it was in Gotham. He passes a sleepy-looking shop boy, just sweeping out their shop front, and a sharp headache, and vision, overwhelm him: _twenty years, chopping down a giant tree that will, eventually become part of a large wooden animal, and help fuel a war_. Bruce winces at the slightly bizarre intrusion, and stumbles forward. 

He does not hear the adolescent voice cry out sharply: “Hey! Watch out, I’m—” until it’s too late. Bruce jerks his focus away from the shop boy and stumbles over the youth, who’s crouched over a small sack, a battered amphora, and an even more tattered blanket. He stumbles into the nearest wall, and is more bemused than anything (the youth’s appalled expression adds to this). Bruce gathers himself— and notes that he’s a little shaken, but otherwise okay— when a small, calloused hand touches his bare shoulder. And Bruce was _foolish_ to venture out alone, _foolish_ to think he could be okay by himself. “—you okay?” is all he catches, before he’s overwhelmed by a vison. 

_“Bruce! BRUCE!” sobs the young man, who, it is apparent now, is not as youthful as Bruce first thought. He’s probably around fourteen, maybe fifteen, actually. But something is off, here. And Bruce realizes: he’s seeing this vision **through his own eyes**. “Bruce!” sobs the young man. Bruce hears— feels— himself wheezing. He somehow knows that he (they, actually, he can sense Clark and Diana hovering over him) are in a rocky field, with patchy grass, gravel, mud, and weeds. There is the taste of blood in his mouth, and smoke in his nose. He wheezes, and then—_

A small hand grasps his own. Bruce blinks, and staggers to his feet, with the help of the young man, surprisingly enough. Bruce is not a small man, and for this youth to be able to help pull him up is… unusual. He tries his best to gather his focus _because for the first time in thirty-plus years, he had a clue about his own death_ and observe the young man. He is scrawny, but not skinny. He has bronzy, even honeyed, skin, dark black hair, and eyes that almost match Bruce’s. He is dirty— clearly a street dweller, and probably an orphan, at that— _and he is staring at Bruce with a wide, concerned (intelligent) gaze_. Bruce swallows, and tries to gather his (very scattered, not to mention shaken) wits. “I… I,” he stutters. 

The youth, and Bruce has a burning desire to ask: ‘what is your name,’ interrupts “Are you okay, sir? That was… quite the stumble you took back there. I’m sorry—” 

This time, Bruce’s brain seems to work. He interrupts back, “It… it was my fault, kid. Don’t worry. What are you doing out here?” 

For the first time, the kid’s eyes turn hard, and he gives Bruce a once-over. But then his eyes soften again, and he says, with a toothy grin, “Dick Grayson, acrobat extraordinaire!” He holds out his (calloused, slightly dirty) hand. Bruce flinches. Dick’s grin fades, and he cocks his head slightly. Despite his unease, Bruce can’t help but note, with amusement, _the kid needs a haircut_. After another moment of silent, mutual sizing-up, Dick drops his hand, and says, as if he was commenting on the line up of the Olympics, “You’re some kind of oracle, aren’t you, sir?" As if that wasn't enough, he adds, in a whisper, "I had a great grandmother who was an oracle.” 

Bruce staggers back, and hits the wall again. Dick is still _standing there_ , looking at him. “I… I. Come with me,” Bruce finally barks. He wheels on his feet and does not look back. His mouth is dry, and he feels almost as if he’s going to be sick. So casually: ‘you’re an oracle.’ And, how could he have forgotten? The vision. He is ripped from his thoughts by the sound of scrambling feet behind him. The kid— Dick— has an armful of his stuff. 

“Wait up!” he calls petulantly, “not all of us have such big legs. Say, what’s your name, even? Where are we going?” Bruce stops, and Dick, in turn, staggers a bit so as not to run into his back. 

Bruce whirls, and says shortly, “My name is Bruce Wayne. We are going back to the inn, where I am staying with my travel companions. We’re on a mission to find the Amazons, and I _am_ an oracle. I’ve just have a vision of my own future, which has never happened before, and I suspect it is because of you.” With that, he spins around again, and marches forward. He thinks, _Somehow, this will change everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=naW6-WxmMiU) for those who are curious.


	9. We Can Sail Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce brings Dick back to the inn to meet Clark and Diana. Only then does he realize what he's done. Things move on from there. A particular sea captain is met. 
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter title from the same song as quote.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "From the North to the South, Ebudau unto Khartoum.  
> From the deep Sea of Clouds to the Island of the Moon.  
> Carry me on the waves to the lands I've never seen.  
> Carry me on the lands I've never seen.  
> We can sail, with the Orinoco flow.  
> We can sail away..."  
> — _Orinoco Flow_ , Enya

Thankfully, when they reach the inn, the attendants are changing shifts so there is no one by the door. Bruce stops just inside the entryway, and fishes around for a few coins. Dick has shown him a rather extraordinary amount (Epimetheus-levels) of trust, so he feels comfortable letting the kid order breakfast for them all. This acknowledgement of Dick’s trust makes Bruce _extremely_ uncomfortable. 

Because now that Bruce is thinking clearly, it _could_ be said that he’s kidnapped the kid. After all, to Dick, Bruce is a random man, with (from Dick’s perspective) unknown— or at least vaguely explained— intentions. Furthermore, Bruce is a stranger that told Dick to come with him. _Oh, gods, he’s kidnapped a child_. No matter how vision-addled Bruce is (or had been), that is no excuse. Nor is the matter of his intentions— despite the fact that he’s only interested in talking to Dick to uncover more information about the mechanisms of his sight (which he _still_ knows nearly-nothing about), and his own future. Bruce would _never_ hurt a child. 

But that doesn't matter to Hades. Human lives _never_ matter to Hades. And, once again, not only has he endangered Dick's life by secondary exposure to Bruce's dangers, but Bruce has kidnapped him (despite it being very unintentional). Even if this situation, like most of the others in Bruce’s life, has not turned out how Bruce had intended this is not enough to exonerate Bruce. Because he _should’ve_ known better, no matter that he’d not physically dragged the kid with him. Bruce is an adult, and— he knows— intimidatingly large. That would be enough to persuade even adults to do things they’d not be comfortable with, let alone a young kid (even if Dick hadn’t seemed at all put out to come with him). Bruce realizes, in retrospect, how this looks. He kind of wishes Tilphousia would dole out punishment upon him. 

Throughout all of this, Dick is standing behind him, bouncing on his feet. _It is too late now to change what had happened, and if they stay there any longer, people will notice_. Best to press on then, and apologize later. “When somebody comes down, go ahead and order four breakfasts. I’ll be back soon,” Bruce instructs. He hands the suddenly wide-eyed kid five coins, and heads for the stairs. Though Bruce feels very uneasy (in retrospect) at how he got Dick here, even if he didn’t _mean it_ to happen as it did, he cannot suppress the intrigue he feels about what his vision means for their fight against Hades. For his own future. _This could turn out to be the biggest clue he’s ever had as to how his sight works_ , Bruce thinks, _and it may even help their ‘quest’ as well_. 

Bruce unlocks the door to his and Clark’s room first, and is a bit surprised to see that he’s already awake and packing. Somehow, he doesn’t think of Clark as a morning person. _But then again, Bruce hasn’t made a study of Clark’s sleep habits_ — he pushes that thought away. Clark turns around at his entry, and smiles at him, though his eyes are questioning. “I was wondering when you’d be back,” he says mildly, “good morning.” 

Bruce blinks. “Morning. Sorry to worry you… do you know if Diana’s awake? I’ve ordered us breakfast, and there’s— I have news,” Bruce says awkwardly. _How to explain that he’d **coerced** a child here, even if it was unintentional?_ At this, Clark’s questioning look returns, and it’s enough to make Bruce feel almost pried apart. _He’d make a good devotee to Amphitrite_ , Bruce thinks, with his sharp mind. 

Unfortunately, Clark too often uses those investigative skills to try and unravel _Bruce_. Their unintentional stand-off is ended when Clark looks away first. “I don’t. Look, I’ll head down and get us a table,” he says, standing. Bruce nods. Then he feels a pang of worry run through his gut. But Clark disappears before he can say anything else. 

Bruce sighs. _He might as well find Diana, at this point_. So he does. 

Unsurprisingly, she’s awake when Bruce knocks. Diana opens her door, and offers a gentle smile. “Bruce! Good morning,” she says. “How did you sleep?” 

Bruce grimaces. “Well enough… I’ve gotten us breakfast. Clark should already be downstairs,” he says. Diana nods, stepping out of her room. 

“Thank you,” she says. After Diana locks her door, she gestures at Bruce to lead the way. He turns around, and tries to push away his nerves. Somehow, he _hadn’t_ thought about the logistics of this beforehand, and curses that stupidity, his own over-eagerness. He can say, with no qualms, that he’s a bit scared of what Diana’s reaction will be, and rightfully so— he’s messed up, even if unintentionally. 

Bruce sometimes thinks that, among her many other abilities, Diana’s aura has been blessed by Deimos— it would explain her forceful presence at the very least. Bruce swallows nervously. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, he sees that the food’s already arrived, and that Clark is seated across from Dick. He _looks_ deep in conversation with the kid, who, as Bruce is watching, laughs wildly at something Clark’s said. 

Then Dick looks up, sees Bruce and Diana, and waves. Bruce doesn’t wave back, but does feel his lips twitch upward, in spite of everything. At the motion, Clark turns around and looks at his companions. Though, he doesn’t smile. This worries Bruce. _As it should_ , he thinks guiltily. 

Somehow, they’ve crossed the entire room already. Bruce and Diana pause in front of the table. A silence falls over Clark and Dick at their approach, and Bruce turns so he can see Diana, who’s been behind him until now. Her gaze flicks over the scene— to Dick’s face, Clark’s face, then across the array of food, and finally to Bruce’s own gaze. He very deliberately meets her (now piercing) stare, and doesn’t fidget. “Who is this?” she asks, somewhat quietly. Clark looks intrigued by what Bruce’s answer will be as well. 

Before Bruce can answer, Dick blurts, “I’m Dick Grayson, acrobat extraordinaire. Are you Diana? Clark’s told me about you.” 

Diana relaxes slightly at his words, as does Clark. “Yes, young one. I am Diana. It is nice to meet you. Though I must admit, I am… a bit perplexed at your presence here,” she says. 

Bruce interjects, feeling a bit frazzled, “I’ll explain over breakfast. We’re going to make a scene if we keep standing here.” Diana looks at him again, but her expression is (slightly) less judgmental than before. She nods incrementally and sits next to Dick, which leaves Bruce to squeeze in next to Clark— both of them are large men, and the table is not quite large enough to accommodate them. Bruce feels grateful for her willingness to hear him out. If she or Clark had done something like this, Bruce would have questions too. 

Diana takes a bowl, serves herself some bread and grapes, then pours a glass of water. After this, she looks at Bruce. Clark, who’s been watching the whole exchange, turns to watch Bruce too. “Explain how you met,” Diana says (orders). 

Bruce swallows again, and replies “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and went for a walk. That… did not turn out to be a good decision, _predictably_ , and so I wasn’t as aware of my surroundings as I should have been and ran into Dick—” 

“ _Literally_ ran into me,” Dick interjects, “I _warned him_ I was there, but he was having a vision thingy, and so must’ve not heard me, or seen me in time.” After this, there’s a moment of complete stillness, and not even Diana moves. Then, time unfreezes. 

“Um, you know about Bruce’s… ability?” Clark asks finally, as if _that’s_ the biggest question he should have. Bruce wants to roll his eyes at the delicate phrasing, but knows that it is a serious question. Dick nods, apparently taking this in stride, and bites off another enormous piece of bread. 

“Yeah,” he says nonchalantly, after he’s finished chewing, “he did that thing—” Dick mimes going cross-eyed “that my great grandma used to do when she had visions— at least, according to the stories that my Mama used to tell me. That’s how I knew… I remembered her stories.” At this proclamation, there’s another moment of silence. Although only some of this is news, for Bruce, he listens with interest. It is very intriguing, the discovery of another, previously unknow, oracle. 

“I was just as surprised when he said that, believe me,” Bruce says, and _hates_ how it sounds like he’s making excuses, “But I asked Dick here because when he tried to help me, I had another vision. A vision that I believe foretells my own death.” Both Diana and Clark turn towards him sharply, at this proclamation. They look as surprised as Bruce had felt in that moment (as surprised as he _still_ feels). 

“I see,” Diana says neutrally. She sounds less upset than before though, which is a relief. But Bruce isn’t ready to let the matter drop yet. Although his vision _does_ merit more discussion, Bruce has more to apologize for, and to explain. 

He blushes. “In my… excitement, I may have been slightly overeager, and my _request_ for Dick to come with me and meet you two may have come across as more of a demand,” Bruce says. He turns to Dick, and continues, “If that was not apparent, then I am truly sorry. I never intended to _force you_ to come with me, and as an adult, I should have made that much, much clearer.” Dick frowns. _Oh gods_ , Bruce thinks. _All this because he’d been overeager and selfish, and desperate for information. All this because he thought he could unlock how his ‘sight’ worked. Idiot_. 

Instead of getting (rightfully) upset, Dick just rolls his eyes, and finishes chewing another bit of bread. He says, “Zeus and the pantheon! Do you really think you’re the first stranger who’s asked me to do stuff, Bruce? I’m an orphan! I _know_ what it looks like when someone is sizing me up, is thinking: ‘vulnerable street kid— easy pickings.’ I’ve gotten to be a pretty good judge of character, because of that. So if I didn’t think it was safe, I would _never_ have come with you.” 

Bruce blinks. Clark and Diana relax, incrementally. Dick looks at them all, and shrugs, as if to say, ‘what?’ and grabs yet another slice of bread, and some grapes. Diana breaks the silence, and says, looking at Bruce, “That is kind of you, Dick. But not everyone is as well-meaning, if _foolish_ , as Bruce is. Be aware of that.” Bruce nods in agreement. _Chastisement duly noted, and received_ , he thinks. There’s another hard moment of silence, and then Diana’s hard demeanor, at last, relaxes. 

“Now, what is this about you having a vision of your future, Bruce?” she generously asks. Bruce feels relieved. 

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About half an hour later, they’re done with breakfast, and Bruce has divulged as much as he’s willing to in their unsecure location (he’ll talk to Diana and Clark about it later, in privacy). One of the inn attendants has cleared their dishes, and now they are discussing what to do next. “I know some people who work as ship loaders at the docks,” Dick says helpfully. 

“That’s great!” Clark says. 

“Yes,” Bruce says, already predicting where this is going, “except you’re not coming with us.” 

As he’d thought likely, Dick turns to scowl at him. “Why not?” he demands. Clark turns to look at him too. Bruce does not appreciate how… motivating Clark’s curiosity is. Thankfully, Diana stays out of it. 

Bruce prays for patience, before he answers, “It’s not safe, is why. And I’ve no intention of disrupting anyone else’s life more than I already have.” He fixes a firm look on Clark. Clark, unsurprisingly, looks unmoved. Gods help him, he even shoots an appealing look back at Bruce. _If he does that enough_ , Bruce thinks, _it’ll mean trouble for my resolve_. 

“So? It’s not like my life is all that safe as of now, anyways,” Dick argues stubbornly. Diana looks amused, but still does not interfere one way or another. Clark looks as if he might laugh at any moment, at the kid’s wit. So it’s up to Bruce to be the one with common sense (if any of them can be said to have it). _Zeus_. 

He scowls firmly, and stares at Dick, at this remarkably stubborn, intelligent child (though really, he’s more of a teenager). “As I remember you claiming earlier, you’re good at taking care of yourself,” Bruce says. “This is not like that. Where we’re going, your street smarts won’t be enough to help you survive— we have no idea of what we’ll be facing, of the dangers coming our way. Hade— a _god_ is after me. Do you understand that, Dick?” 

The kid, frustratingly, rolls his eyes. “So I’ve heard, Bruce. But that still sounds better than staying here and performing until someone feels bad enough to toss me a few coins,” he says. Clark snickers. Bruce glares. He isn’t helping. So again, he turns to Diana— to appeal for assistance— but finds that she too looks amused. Though she is subtler about it than Clark, at least. Bruce throws up his hands. 

“I’m so glad that probably-mortal danger is funny to you, Clark. And to you as well, Diana,” he snaps. Thankfully, that shuts Clark up. Bruce feels a jolt of petty satisfaction. He sighs, and turns again to Dick, who’s more subdued but still determined-looking. “You’re not coming with us, Dick. I’m sorry, but it’s just too dangerous, and I won’t have you get killed because of me,” he says softly. 

Dick actually looks close to tears, and Bruce feels a pang of sorrow, at that. “But,” he says, and Dick looks up hopefully, “that doesn’t mean we’re going to leave you to beg in the streets, either. We can discuss ways to get you off the streets, after this is all over. But for now, _I cannot_ allow you to come with us.” Dick swallows, and nods. Despite himself, Bruce smiles a little. “Now I remember you saying you knew someone at the docks who could help us. Can you take us to them?” 

Dick grins. “Sure thing, Bruce.” Clark laughs. Bruce breathes a sigh of relief. _Thank the gods, but somehow he’s managed not to fuck things up with the kid_. 

Diana stands. “Since that’s settled,” she says, amusement coloring her voice, “lead the way, Dick.” Dick stands too, and offers her a nod. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” he says cheekily. 

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Metropolis is significantly more crowded than it had appeared when Bruce traversed its streets earlier this morning. His headache’s back too, though he’s trying not to let it show. Not only would it not do to have Diana, Clark (and now Dick too) be worried about him, but Bruce _has_ traveled before, and his instincts for trouble are, generally, second-to-none. And the area Dick’s leading them through looks like it has plenty of trouble to offer. 

Despite Bruce’s misgivings, it does appear that Dick knows their surroundings well. He is able to weave through the crowd with grace, and even nods or waves at a few passersby. Finally, the buildings become fewer and fewer, and the bay comes into view. Bruce can smell the salt in the air, and feels grateful for the slight breeze. He sends a brief prayer of thanks to Aeolus. 

From the activity, it appears that the harbor is very busy. As they make their way past ships, Bruce can smell the exotic scents of spices, the tang of sweat, and the musty smell of animals, along with the bright scent of pine sap, and smoke. He can also hear shouting— in a variety of languages— and swallows, trying to repress his anxiety. Clark seems to sense this because he drifts backwards, to Bruce’s side. 

Although Bruce _does_ feel comforted by this, he is also annoyed that Clark thinks he _needs_ him. His pride, acting up. Also, Bruce is still a little peeved at Clark for wanting to let Dick come with them, for seemingly downplaying the danger they face (for downplaying Bruce’s real, and justified, _fear_ of what’s to come). Bruce thinks, once again, that he never asked to go on this quest. So he speeds up until he’s walking nearer to Diana. Clark, thankfully, does not try to approach him again. 

His attention is brought back out of his head when Dick shouts, “Arthur!” and runs off. Bruce almost speeds up to go after him, but then he sees that Dick has just approached the next-closest ship, a big merchant boat whose sails are lowered. The name, he sees, is “Ἀτλαντὶς νῆσος.” He snorts at the bold, egotistical claim. Bruce has found that most who claim a tie to the mystical floating island are nothing but fools. Or greedy. Or some combination of both (unfortunate) character traits. _Some merchant vessel this is_ , he thinks. 

Yet again, his attention is dragged outwards when an enormous, deeply-tanned man, with long, tangled hair, steps down the gangplank and sweeps Dick into a hug. “Well if it isn’t my favorite little errand boy! Hello, Dick,” he booms. Ah. So _this_ is Arthur, then. Bruce is rather unimpressed. 

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Dick says, “but I’m here on business, today. My friends are looking for a seaworthy boat, and a captain for it. So I’m hoping you can help.” At this, Arthur looks up, and spots them. His sharp, assessing gaze roams over the three of them, and lands on Bruce. Bruce meets his gaze until the other man looks away, frowning slightly. 

“I’m glad you thought of me, Dick, but you know I can’t—” 

“We can pay you,” Bruce says gruffly; he knows the type of man Arthur is. He’s a merchant— motivated by money and adventure. True to form, Arthur does look intrigued. But he scowls. 

“I… appreciate that you’re being up-front, but I can’t. I have duties, here, and I can’t go galivanting off. Sorry,” he says, shrugging. Bruce grits his teeth. _Yes, he definitely doesn’t like this man_. 

“But Arthur!” Dick protests, “they’re on a _quest_. They need your help.” Bruce grits his teeth. _Of all the things…_ Dick is clearly not blessed by Harpocrates. Unfortunately. However, despite Bruce’s (many) misgivings, Arthur _does_ look more interested. 

“Oh?” he says. 

Bruce intervenes before Dick can say any more. “Yes. And we can pay _well_ ,” he insists. Arthur raises a brow, and looks consideringly at them. 

“Let’s say I agreed to take you. Where would we be going? Like I said, I have responsibilities here. I can’t just pull an Odysseus, and run off for ten years,” he warns. Bruce stops himself from rolling his eyes. They need someone to captain a vessel for them, and if Dick trusts Arthur, the man must be good for something. 

Diana steps forward. “We’d be sailing roughly to the island of Thera,” she says. 

Arthur raises an eyebrow, and crosses his arms. “Poseidon! That’s pretty far. And if you want to go now, we’ll need some luck, too. Summer storms are pretty bad, right now,” he hedges. 

Bruce steps forward again. “We can pay _very well_ ,” he says. Arthur meets his gaze, and stares a moment in silence. 

Finally, he says, “You must be very desperate then… Okay, I’ll do it— if you can pay. But fair warning, it might get rough.” 

Bruce nods. “Understood. When’s the earliest you’d be willing to leave?” he asks. 

Arthur’s gaze flicks to Dick. “Would the others understand?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I’ll tell them,” Dick says. He turns to Bruce, Diana, and Clark, and explains, “Arthur gives all us street kids work, or if none’s available, fish. That’s what he means by ‘responsibilities.’” 

Bruce nods, and changes his estimation of Arthur, a little. Clark says, “We’d be happy to reimburse you for your work here, too.” He looks at Bruce questioningly. 

“Of course,” Bruce says (agrees with Clark). Arthur looks pensive, again. 

“In that case,” Arthur says, “I can be ready whenever you all want me to be.” 

“We shall return in three days,” Diana says, “with your money, of course.” 

Arthur says, “Of course. But I haven’t even told you how much it’ll cost yet.” 

Bruce says, “Well, please do inform us, then.” Arthur shoots him a scowl. 

“I’ll need 20 drachma for insurance. 40 more for the voyage, and supplies. Another 15 for what I’ll lose here on the docks,” he says, without qualm. 

“Very well,” Bruce says, “we’ll have it for you when we return in three days.” Arthur nods, and turns away. 

“Can we afford that?” Clark asks quietly, once Arthur's walked away. Privately, Bruce knows that he doesn’t have enough coins here, with him, but he doesn’t say that. He feels a brief flare of frustration at Diana, for forcing him to come on this journey as she has. If Bruce had had the time, they wouldn’t have this problem. 

“I can help,” Dick interrupts. Bruce startles slightly, and neutralizes his sour expression. He’s not mad at Dick, after all. 

“We won’t need that,” he says, “I have a property we can go to, for funds.” 

“Very well,” Diana says, “I shall accompany you.” 

“I can pack up things here, get supplies,” Clark offers. 

“And I can help,” Dick says cheerfully. 

“We’ll meet back here in three-day’s time, then,” Bruce concludes. That agreed on, they turn back towards the inn to begin their preparations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTrk4X9ACtw).


	10. My Lady, Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Diana split from Clark and Dick, to get some money. Dick and Clark stay behind in Metropolis to pack up the room and to get more supplies for their trip.
> 
> A stranger crosses paths with Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Love conquers all things; let us too surrender to Love"  
> —Virgil.

Bruce and Diana opt to leave the cart behind, as it is only a few hours’ journey to their destination. Diana, as she is _significantly_ stronger than Bruce, offers to carry their things. He agrees with little persuasion— he’ll have to focus on remembering the way to what had once been his parent’s summer home. It has been years since he has been there. Bruce feels a sharp stab of sadness, at that thought. However, he’s distracted from his feelings by Diana’s calm inhale of breath, as if she is preparing to say something. Bruce realizes that they haven’t really _talked_ to one another since he was refusing to sleep. 

“What do you plan to do with the boy?” she asks. Bruce swallows. He hadn’t exactly been expecting _that_ , but it is also not a completely surprising question. 

Bruce wipes some sweat from his brow, and contemplates the question a bit more. “I… was imagining that he could come back to Gotham with me— if that’s what he wants— and live with Alfred,” he replies. 

Diana says nothing, so he looks over at her. She wears a thoughtful frown, and it makes Bruce nervous. “Would it not be better for him to live with you?” she asks finally. Bruce cannot help the surprised laugh that escapes. 

“ _Hestia, no!_ Diana, I can’t even take care of myself some days— you know that. In another lifetime, perhaps. But no, it would be _worse_ for Dick to live with me,” Bruce concludes, sighing. _He’s never really considered having children, but there’s something charming, something **good** about Dick, that makes him reconsider_. 

“What of Clark?” Diana asks. Bruce feels cold, all of a sudden. _She can’t know… can she?_ Perhaps she _can_ — Diana has hinted at having… abilities, after all. 

Bruce plays oblivious. “He can visit, I suppose. You could as well. Or, if Dick wants— and if Clark is willing— he could live with him in Metropolis,” he says calmly. Diana remains silent at his side as they walk through a grove of trees. The path here is less cleared— disuse allowing Demeter to reclaim what is hers. Bruce tries not to imagine the same eventually happening to his parent’s house. 

“I see,” Diana says, eventually. And that is that. They push forward, once again in silence. It is oddly restful this time, and Bruce appreciates Diana’s… centeredness, and her ability to drop a subject. He suspects one comes with her age, and the other with practice. 

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“So, are you _special_ too?” Dick asks. Though Dick is sweet, and Clark doesn’t really mind his curiosity, the kid is also _not_ subtle. While Clark has never been very paranoid about keeping his secret, he **does** keep his own basic safety in mind. This does not include needlessly discussing it in public (especially when they’re scattered as they are). Clark pauses over his platter of roasted corn. He and Dick are sitting in a small offshoot of the market, about three blocks from the inn, eating lunch. Other than the food that’s on Dick’s face, he’s a lot cleaner than he had been that morning. Once they had all arrived back at the inn, Clark had taken Dick to the public baths and they’d both washed up. 

Additionally, while Clark’s work as a hero does expose him to all sorts of people, that still doesn’t mean he _talks_ to the general public a lot (the fact that demi-gods have been **unpopular** for a long time now doesn’t help, either) so he’s a little awkward. But then again, _somehow_ , **Bruce** had been able to manage Dick, and he’s even more anti-social. _He can do this_. Something pokes him in the shoulder and Clark diverts his attention away from his thoughts. Dick is looking up at him curiously, and Clark remembers his question. After a moment, Clark nods. 

Dick grins, and finishes off the rest of his plate in one bite. “Wha’ d’ y’u do?” he presses through his mouthful of food. 

Clark represses an awkward laugh, imagining Bruce’s probable reaction to the scene. Clark stands, and collects Dick’s empty plate; they can get five drachma for returning the ceramic dishes. “We can talk later, okay? Right here is not… the best location,” Clark says patiently. Dick nods. They return the plates, and the shop woman gives them eight drachma, because Dick smiles at her and compliments her cooking. Clark nearly snorts in disbelief, but they need the money, so he doesn’t. 

As they’re walking back to the inn, Clark goes over the list in his head: pack up the room, pick up some supplies, any other gear he thinks they might need. It is not a substantial amount of tasks, but it may require a lot of back-and-forth travel. Echo would be pleased. Clark sighs. _Now if only Chrysus would be willing to help out_ , he thinks grimly. Dick, who’s been walking behind him silently, pipes up, “What’re we doing today, Clark?” 

“We can pack up the room. I also need to check on the cart, and see what supplies we need,” he replies. Dick nods, his curiosity apparently satisfied enough for now. They continue on again in silence. 

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Bruce and Diana arrive three hours later. 

Bruce has prepared himself mentally for this— or he thought he had. As the (now faded and dirty) building comes into view, he has to stop. Bruce sucks in a sharp breath at the sorrow he feels ripple through him. About a quarter of the roof tiles are missing, and the rest are sun-faded. The white plaster covering the stone walls is chipped, and the grass has overtaken the path. The once carefully-manicured olive tree (that Bruce remembers Alfred caring for) has shot up, and now shades the front door. It is full with olives still, as if it doesn’t realize that there is no one to pick them; Demeter’s persistence, evident again. Bruce swallows, and pushes back against the memory of swinging in the tree’s branches, watched by his father and mother (and later Alfred). 

Diana has stopped a few paces in front of him, and is looking around with polite curiosity. She doesn’t try to speak to him, which Bruce is grateful for. Finally, he frees himself from Pothos’ power and walks up to Diana’s side. She glances over at him, and asks, “How do we get in?” 

“We walk in,” Bruce says, moving to push open the door. It creaks, and the wood feels dry and slightly brittle under his hand. “There was never much furniture here— this was only our summer home. After my parents died, Alfred emptied what was left and hired some locals to keep people from living in it.” 

“Ah,” Diana says. Bruce coughs at the cloud of dust that stirs at their movements through the somewhat dim entryway. No one’s been here for a long time— but he still remembers his way around. As they continue through the house, Bruce firmly keeps his mind in the present, and focuses on his surroundings as much as he can. He hadn’t expected it to be this difficult to come back— if he’d known, he would have suggested making the trip by himself. Thankfully, Diana is still silent, and seems content to follow his lead. They walk through the empty kitchen and then through the cobweb-covered doorway to the central courtyard. Bruce blinks slightly at the brightness. 

The courtyard is as abandoned-looking as the rest of the space. The lemon tree in the corner has grown massive— it now clears the roofline, and Bruce can see rotting lemons dotting the remaining rooftiles. His mother’s small herb garden has filled with weeds, though the rosemary and mint still seem to be doing well. The once-impeccable cobblestones have shifted because of the lemon tree’s roots, and grass and weeds have sprouted in the cracks. The fountain is dry and filled with dust, dead leaves, and other debris. Bruce takes a deep, shaky breath in and smells must, the tang of lemons, and the sharp heady scent of the rosemary and mint. 

In that moment, he is overwhelmed by a strong mental image of his mother kneeling over the herb garden. She had attended to the garden devotedly whenever they visited, and she’d occasionally allowed Bruce to ‘assist.’ For most of the summer, his mother would smell like a strange— but refreshing— combination of rosemary, earth, and fresh air. Bruce swallows thickly, and steps forward. He kneels in front of the tree. 

Diana, who has stayed back in the doorway, moves forward. “What are you looking for?” she asks softly. Bruce is half-appreciative of her sensitivity, half-annoyed that she thinks it _necessary_. He is more annoyed at himself for allowing Oizys’s dark powers to continue to sway him. It has been _a lifetime_ since his parents died, and they only ever visited this house when the shrine in Gotham wasn’t that busy. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. 

“I’m looking for an amphora. I buried it here about ten or twelve years ago, when I first started moving around. It might’ve been swallowed by the tree’s roots though. If we can find it, that’ll solve our financial problems,” Bruce explains. 

He unsheathes the dagger and starts scratching at the dirt. Behind him, he hears Diana cross the courtyard. Then, there is a tremendous crack— Bruce whips around. She is holding a medium-sized limb from the lemon tree. Bruce would rebuke her for it, but he sees that the wood is dull; it had been dead already. _The force it would take to do that_ … he swallows at the impressive display of strength. _Clearly there is more to Diana than what she has told him_. 

“Allow me,” Diana says. Bruce stands, dusts himself off, and moves back. Diana hefts the limb over one shoulder and moves forward. She raises it in her hands, and Bruce raises a brow at how her arm muscles swell with effort. She brings the branch down and the earth shifts with a thud. Diana repeats the action twice more, and a neat pile of displaced dirt forms around the site of her focus. She holds the branch with one arm and twists to face Bruce. “How deep, approximately, is the amphora?” she asks him. 

Bruce blinks, and gathers himself. He peers into the hole. “Not too much farther down. I think maybe one or two more… impacts should do it,” he replies. Diana nods. She takes a moment to wipe dirt from her face and then lifts the branch. Bruce steps back. In quick succession, Diana hits the ground again. Then, chuckling slightly, she steps back. 

“I shall leave the rest to you, Bruce,” she says, smiling mischievously. Diana sets the branch against the wall and wanders back into the house. Bruce walks forward slowly, and runs a hand over the splintered end of the branch. _If Diana can do this_ , he thinks, _then what is the power of the rest of the Amazons?_ For the first time in a long time, Bruce feels a spark of **hope**. He glances up at the splintered end of the lemon tree, where the dead branch had been, and then walks back to the hole. Bruce kneels again and starts scooping away the dirt. 

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“Now that we’re alone,” Dick says, from his handstand, “are you gonna answer my questions?” 

Clark blinks at him. The kid could be Bia’s offspring, he moves around so much. Dick wiggles his eyebrows, and stands from the acrobatic maneuver. He hands Clark another bag, which he adds to the pile in the corner. “Sure,” Clark answers, sitting on one of the beds. Then Dick flips back into the handstand and walks forward— still on his hands. When he’s closer to Clark, he flips up and lands in a crouch on the bed. Dick grins at Clark’s startled look, and bounces to a sit. “Are you done yet?” Clark asks mock-seriously. Dick laughs. 

“Okay, okay. I’m grounded now,” he insists. He even sits on his hands, in a display of his seriousness. Clark snorts. 

“You know Bruce is an oracle, and Diana’s an Amazon,” Clark starts. Dick nods, and he continues, “well, I’m _not_ either of those…” _this is surprisingly hard to say_ , he thinks. He hasn’t actually **told** anyone else his secret before— Diana figured it out, and Bruce had just _known_. “I’m a demi-god,” he blurts. Dick blinks, looking surprised. 

“But… but you’re so— so _normal_ ,” he objects. Clark grimaces, at how that stings. Normal— the reason he could never play with the other kids. The reason his parents were extra careful to sacrifice equally to the gods. Normal— the reason Bruce and he will never work out. Normal— the reason he’s **never** told anyone who he really is. Because most demi-gods aren’t normal (aren’t sane) and so people are afraid of them. That’s why Clark has had to hide his whole life. Dick’s next question snaps him from his momentary displeasure. “So… who are, y’know, your parents?” 

Clark glances upward momentarily. “I’m adopted,” he says, “I never knew my mother. But my father… is Zeus.” Dick startles. He swallows, and stares curiously. But at least he doesn’t look _scared_. 

“Huh,” Dick says. He stands on the bed and does a flip off it. And it appears that that is the end of his questioning. Clark feels better, somehow, for finally being able to tell the truth. 

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Evening has fallen, and Bruce and Diana are sitting on the edge of the fountain, in the last few rays of sunlight that penetrate the courtyard. As Bruce was digging up the amphora, Diana had been busy gathering olives from the tree out front and cleaning out a space somewhere for them to sleep. They eat dinner in contented silence. It feels rather like Diana has been blessed by Eirene, in the way she is able to _just be_. Bruce admires this ability, and is also envious of it. This is especially so when he’s been feeling as turmoiled as he has recently. Though, to be fair, he’s under _a lot_ of stress, what with **Hades** after him, (his feelings for Clark), and all. 

Once he’s done, Bruce stands with his sack, and turns to look at Diana. After the full day of traveling, and the digging, he feels in need of a wash. “I’m going down to the river— if you follow the path, it’s just past the grove of trees down the hill. Holler if you need me… not that I think you will,” Bruce tells her. Diana smiles with faint amusement at this truth. 

“Very well,” she says, “I will do so, if need be. Otherwise, I’ll be here.” Bruce nods, and wanders off. 

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It’s been _years_ since he’s been to the river, but Bruce has fond memories of it— his father taught him to swim here, and to fish. He’d also spent long hours here, alone, trying to master his sight. Perhaps that is why he still has a fondness for secluded, open spaces. Bruce allows a small smile to cross his features, as he walks slowly down the path. The sky is turning hazy with the setting sun, and the tree-leaves glow. There is still a pleasant heat in the air, left over from the day’s warmth, and Bruce can hear a few birds chirping— they’re too far away for him to sense anything, though, which is just as well. 

Finally, he reaches the river, which has deepened and changed course since he was a boy. Bruce strips and leaves his sack of clothes and supplies by a rock on the bank. The water is cool and refreshing. But, it is now getting dark, so Bruce can’t linger here too much longer, even if he’d like to. Also, now that it is growing darker, the mosquitoes have come out: _a week, natural causes, getting swatted by him, getting swatted by him, swatted, splashed_ , and Bruce **hates** bugs— there are often a lot of them in a group, which proves to be very distracting. 

As he’s busy _bringing death_ to the annoying pests, Bruce at first doesn’t notice that he’s being watched. Maybe it’s because he’s so used to his sight being dulled by Diana and Clark’s presence, or maybe it’s that he’s distracted, but a few minutes pass before Bruce halts his actions. It’s then that he realizes that he’s not alone, and that the presence is immortal. _Soteria_ , Bruce thinks, _grant me safety_. If it’s a river nymph, he’s screwed— _perhaps **he** will be the one yelling for Diana…_ Slowly, Bruce turns towards the riverbank, squinting a bit in the dimness. He wades forward a few feet, but stays deep enough so the water covers him. 

The first thing he takes in is the stranger’s beauty. She is… perfection. Dressed in a light tunic of baby blue, with a wreath of hyacinths in her brown hair. But her appearance doesn’t distract Bruce long, because of her _wrongness_ — not just his _sight_ is messed up, but his regular vision as well. The woman seems to be emanating a soft glow. That’s the only explanation for why Bruce thinks that he can see her so well. _So some kind of deity_ , he thinks nervously, _but which one?_ As he continues to stare, waiting nervously, she smiles. The expression looks a bit mischievous, and Bruce sincerely hopes he’s not about to be turned into a godsdamned tree, or a fish; Diana wouldn’t be able to save him then. 

Bruce tries to ignore the shivers that that looks sends down his spine— although, that could also just be from the cold water. His feet are starting to go numb. “Would you make a lady wade into the water?” she asks softly. By all means, Bruce shouldn’t be able to hear her, as far away as she is (by the edge of the trees, on the riverbank), with the sound of the river between them. But her voice carries oddly, and Bruce hears it _perfectly_. He shivers. 

“I would not, my lady,” he responds— whoever she is, she is _powerful_ , he can tell; Bruce has had enough dealings with immortals to know that— “but I am… disrobed.” She laughs, a fresh spring breeze, flowers blooming, a late afternoon with a loved one. 

“That matters not.” Bruce abruptly has a sinking sensation that he knows who he’s dealing with. He steels his nerves, and tells himself _not to blush_. Slowly, as slowly as he can move without being impolite, he steps out of the water. She watches, appreciatively. Bruce blushes. His only saving grace, the thing that keeps him from igniting like Prometheus’s stolen fire, is the _strangeness_ of having his sight removed. 

Bruce reaches the riverbank and the lady hands him his clothes. He barely stops himself from snatching them from her hand. Once Bruce is dressed, the lady leads him away from the river. She takes them only a bit farther up the path, to where the sound of the river becomes a distant burble again. She stops, and Bruce stills behind her. He waits, tensely, for her to make the next move. She absently palms a small, flowering branch of a nearby tree. 

“My name is Selina. I’m looking for a man, and I’m hoping you can help me,” she says. Bruce barely keeps from rolling his eyes. _Does she really think he is dumb enough to believe that… or maybe this is a test, and she expects him to play along_. 

It makes sense, that the Goddess of Love would be a flirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took soooo long; I just wasn't feeling it at first, so I wanted to make sure I got it right before posting :).


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